


Kink Meme Collection

by hollycomb



Category: South Park
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Harem, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Crossdressing, Kink Meme, M/M, Orgy, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roleplay, Scent Kink, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 112,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the fics I've written for the <a href="http://southparkkink.livejournal.com/529.html">South Park Kink Meme</a>. Originally they were anonymous, but I'm actually happy with these and hope they'll get a wider readership here.</p><p>Note on 8-9-14: At this point I'm archiving all of my short porny SP stories here, both older stuff and newer stories. Anything that is largely porn will be placed in this collection, not just stuff I wrote for the old meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Games

**Author's Note:**

> This Means War was translated into Russian recently, and it made me realize that the kink meme probably has a much wider readership than I was assuming. For that reason, I wanted to post my fics here so people could at least leave anonymous kudos if they enjoyed them. I tagged the collection "Stan/Kyle" because that is the pairing in the majority of the stories, and even if I'm writing about Damien and Pip having sex in hell, Stan and Kyle are still doing it up on earth, as far as I'm concerned, so it counts. Thanks to everyone who took the time to give me feedback on the original meme posts!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We were really weird when we were kids."

"We were really weird when we were kids."  
  
Stan says so when they're walking past the toy aisle at Target, shopping for a trash can for their master bathroom. Kyle is tired of the one they've had there since they moved into their house two years ago, and today is the day when he just can't take it anymore. The current trash can is blue and plastic, a remnant from Stan's college dorm room, and it reminds Kyle too strongly of puking into it on frat rush night. They both declined to join a frat, but the trash can endured.  
  
"We weren't that weird," Kyle says, though they were. They're taking their time as they head toward the household decor area, Kyle with his elbows on the cart, Stan walking along beside him and occasionally stopping to touch a random novelty tumbler or string of colored porch lights. When it comes to home decor he likes bright, plastic things that eight year old girls would choose. It's baffling.  
  
"Kyle," Stan says, his gaze sliding to Kyle's incredulously. "We were weird."  
  
"How so?" Kyle asks, though he's pretty sure he knows.  
  
"The games we used to play. Like, we didn't play with that kind of stuff." He flicks his head toward the toy aisle. "Or, I guess we did -"  
  
"You had a _massive_ Lego collection, dude."  
  
"Right, I know, but you remember all the elaborate shit we used to do with Cartman and Kenny? We built a play laundromat. Okay? That's not normal. Not to mention what we did when we were alone together."  
  
"Are you talking about middle school?" Kyle asks, blushing.  
  
"No, that was dry humping. I'm talking about before that. Like. Pre-erections. Those games we used to play."  
  
"What games?" Kyle asks, though he's blushing harder now, remembering. He wishes they weren't in public.  
  
"Dude, you used to tie me up," Stan says, quietly.  
  
A nervous sort of guffaw manages its way past Kyle's lips, and Stan smirks when their eyes meet. Kyle shrugs.  
  
"You were a way harsher teacher, dude," he says.  
  
"Um, no? Remember the Reese's Pieces? That was torture!"  
  
"Not hardly." Kyle is grinning, his quest for a tasteful trashcan momentarily forgotten. "At least I didn't _hit_ my student."  
  
"It wasn't hitting." Stan actually looks distressed, and Kyle bumps him with his hip to let him know he shouldn't be. "It was, you know. Spanking." He says that last word very quietly. Kyle's flush becomes something deeper, a heat that pools low in his stomach.  
  
"I wasn't even sure if you remembered all that," Kyle says.  
  
"Are you serious, dude? How could I forget?"  
  
It started when they were around six or seven, but the games didn't get - well, _serious_ \- until they were eight. Kyle was usually the teacher first, because he paid attention more often in school and liked it when he could stump Stan with history or biology questions. They would play in Stan's room, usually, since his parents were less likely to come knocking when they shut the door. Stan would sit in a chair and Kyle would stand up at the front of the 'classroom,' wearing a pair of lens-less glasses and one of Stan's dad's ties. When Stan got questions wrong, Kyle would threaten to give him a punishment if his errors continued. Stan would bait him with obviously incorrect answers just to see if he was feeling ballsy enough to follow through with it. Kyle usually was, but he would blush while he used a couple of jump ropes they'd stolen from Shelley to tie Stan to the chair.

"Hey," Stan says as they're passing the candy aisle, closing in on home decor. He jogs over to one of the shelves and grins when he finds what he's looking for: a big bag of Reese's Pieces. Kyle lifts his hand to hide his giddy laughter.  
  
"Get them," he says.  
  
"Duh." Stan tosses them into the cart, and they land with an incriminating _smack_ that actually makes Kyle shiver. When Stan was tied to the chair for being a bad student, Kyle would continue with his lesson, but instead of being threatened for wrong answers Stan would get rewarded for correct ones. Kyle would feed him Reese's Pieces, one for each right answer, and would make Stan watch him eat them if he was wrong. The game would almost always escalate to their particular level of weirdness, with Kyle sitting in Stan's lap while he gave his lesson, straddling him and leaning in close when he chewed up the candy, so Stan could be further tortured by smelling it on his breath. Stan would whine and beg and they'd both get hot inside their clothes while Kyle worked up the nerve to put a piece of candy on the end of his tongue and let Stan suck it off.  
  
"Yeah," Kyle says, hurrying toward the trash cans, ready to get out of here. "We were weird."  
  
"Told you, dude." Stan touches the small of his back and leans in close. "But it was awesome."  
  
"Are you going to eat Reese's Pieces off my tongue when we get home?" Kyle asks, afraid that Stan will just laugh. He grins and touches Kyle's back again.  
  
"Maybe," he says. "But only if I get to be the teacher, too."  
  
This was part of their arrangement as kids. When Kyle was done being the teacher - and feeding Stan candy with his tongue usually meant it was done, both of them starting to get fuzzy-brained in a way they couldn't comprehend or deal with yet - Stan got to have his turn. He was usually in the mood for revenge after suffering through Kyle's smug lectures, and he eschewed the glasses and put his dad's tie around his forehead. Stan wasn't a history or biology teacher: he was a karate teacher, and Kyle was a terrible karate student. His sensei was always getting disappointed in him, shaking his head and telling him he had to endure the ancient Japanese form of punishment for bad karate. This involved bending over Stan's bed and getting spanked, sometimes with his underwear pulled down if Stan was feeling particularly vengeful. Kyle always liked it better that way, and he couldn't decide why, because it made the spanking sting harder. It just seemed more _real_ that way.  
  
He can barely concentrate on trash cans and grabs a wooden basket type one without really looking at it. Normally this is the kind of decision that would bring out his neurotic side and cause him to spend thirty minutes deliberating on what would look best with the framed picture that's hanging over the toilet, but at the moment he doesn't care. He races toward the checkout area, Stan walking along beside him at a fast clip.  
  
"What do you think?" Stan asks when they're waiting in line. "Have you gotten better at karate over the years?"  
  
There's a threat buried in the question, and it makes Kyle shudder. He gives Stan a secret smile, the heat in his stomach spreading all the way down through the tips of his fingers.  
  
"Honestly," Kyle says. "I've probably gotten worse."  
  
"Sucks for you," Stan says, and Kyle really needs Stan to stop looking at him like that, like he's already thinking about the sound his hand is going to make when it slaps against Kyle's bare ass. He swallows down his arousal and manages to give the cashier a shaky smile as she rings up the candy and the trash can.  
  
They don't speak during the drive home, as if they're both afraid to spoil what they hope the other is plotting, and Stan doesn't even put on the radio. At the house, Kyle's hands shake as he unlocks the front door, and as soon as they're through it Stan is on him, the bags tumbling to the floor. Kyle pulls away and Stan kicks the door shut before pursuing him.  
  
"Wait!" Kyle says, holding up a hand, and Stan stops. His expression grows milder and he seems to be anticipating some instruction, his breath coming hard through his nose.  
  
"Get the candy and a chair," Kyle says. "I'll get the rope."

Stan runs, and Kyle swallows down a dorkily excited laugh as he heads in the opposite direction, toward the bedroom. He rips the belts off of both of their robes, then digs out of one of Stan's horrible ties, a Broncos one that he would wear to weddings if Kyle allowed it. He dashes back out into the living room, halting in his tracks when he sees Stan sitting in a chair that he's pulled from the kitchen. It's a simple wooden one like the desk chair that Kyle would tie Stan to when they were kids. The bag of Reese's Pieces is in Stan's lap, unopened.  
  
"You were on time to class," Kyle says. He puts the bindings down for now and walks to Stan, taking the candy from his lap and opening it. "Good boy," he says, softly, nervous. He takes a single piece of candy from the bag and holds it to Stan's lips, shivering when Stan carefully licks it into his mouth. He can feel Stan trembling and wants to stroke his cheeks, but instead he walks across the room and stands with the Reese's Pieces bag curled in his fist.  
  
"Today's lesson," Kyle says. "Anatomy."  
  
"Kay," Stan says. His legs spread a little wider, his calves pressed to the legs of the chair as if he's ready to be tied there.  
  
"Now." Kyle walks to Stan again, wishing he had those glasses from Stan's toy box, though they'd be much too small now. "I'm going to point out parts of the body and you're going to identify them. Got it?"  
  
"Got it," Stan says. He grins. "Sir."  
  
"What's this?" Kyle asks, placing two fingers against Stan's wrist. He rubs them there, soft, then turns Stan's hand over and rubs the underside. Stan shivers, thighs twitching.  
  
"Wrist," he says. Kyle sighs and shakes his head.  
  
"I was referring to your skin," he says. "The correct answer was _epidermis_."  
  
"Trick question," Stan says, making a face. Kyle shrugs.  
  
"Wrong answer," he says. He goes to the pile of bindings and selects one of the robe belts. "Now be still for me," he says when he goes back to the chair. He kneels down and ties Stan's left leg to the chair.  
  
"Give me another one," Stan says, sitting up a little straighter. "I'll get it right this time."  
  
"We'll see," Kyle says. He stands and locks eyes with Stan as he brings his fingers to Stan's neck, sliding two fingertips from the edge of Stan's jaw and down over his throat, toward his Adam's apple. "This?" he says.  
  
"My neck," Stan says. He actually seems to want to get a question right. "Or - throat! You touched both."  
  
"I was referring to your epiglottis," Kyle says. "It's somewhere in here." He uses all five fingers on Stan's neck now, stroking him in quick, light passes. Stan swallows heavily.  
  
"This isn't fair," he says.  
  
"Not fair?" Kyle says. "No backtalk allowed. Your behavior problems seem to have increased, Mr. Marsh."  
  
"So what are you going to do about it?" Stan asks, staring up at him darkly.  
  
"Hold still," Kyle says. He goes for the other belt and he tie, and returns to secure Stan's other leg the chair, leaving his thighs spread open. He moves behind Stan and knots the tie around his wrists, leaning down to lick over the fine blue veins there once he's bound.  
  
"You're licking me, teacher," Stan says.  
  
"It'll help you learn about anatomy," Kyle says. He puts his hands on Stan's shoulders and licks the back of his neck, slow and hot, grinning when Stan moans. "That's your spine," Kyle says. He runs the tip of his tongue over the bumps at the back of Stan's neck, more delicately now. "Feel it?"  
  
"Mhmm - yeah," Stan says. He twitches. "Ask me - another, okay?"  
  
"Okay." Kyle moves around to Stan's front, still on his knees. He spreads both hands open at the top of Stan's thighs, watching Stan's breath come faster as he claws them down toward Stan's knees, digging his thumbs in. "What are these?" he asks.  
  
"Thighs?" Poor Stan sounds uncertain, as if Kyle might be asking him to name leg bones instead. Kyle smiles and nods, grabbing for the candy.

"Good boy," he says. He straddles Stan's lap, scooting in close so that Stan can feel the heat of Kyle's erection against his own. "Be still for me, now," Kyle says when Stan tries to buck up against him. He rests his forehead against Stan's and watches Stan's eyes trail down to his mouth as he places a piece of candy on the tip of his tongue. He remembers the way he would tremble when he did this, always afraid it would be this time that Stan turned away, or told him to get off, that he was being too weird. They've always been equally weird, and Kyle remembers how strongly relieved he'd feel about this as Stan sucks on the tip of his tongue, taking the partially melted candy into his own mouth. Kyle kisses Stan's cheeks while he chews and swallows.  
  
"Thank you," Stan says, breathless.  
  
"You'll get more if you keep getting the answers right," Kyle says. He's almost done with being in control, wants to bend over and be spanked. "What's this, now?" he says, reaching down between their bodies to wrap his hand around Stan's trapped erection. Stan groans and lets his head fall back, exposing his throat.  
  
"My dick," Stan says, his hips jerking upward.  
  
"Wrong," Kyle says sternly, still rubbing Stan through his jeans, reaching down to tease his balls with two fingers. "This is your erection, young man. This is what happens when you're aroused. Your cock fills up with blood, and gets big and hard, and then what, hmm? Then what happens?"  
  
"Ah - I f-fuck you with it, sir," Stan says. He tips his head back up and smirks at Kyle, his eyes dark.  
  
"Not always," Kyle says, tapping a finger against Stan's lips. "Sometimes it goes in my mouth, don't forget. Here's another anatomy lesson: the inside of the human mouth is _very_ hot, and when I'm aroused it gets so wet, doesn't it? Hmm? All warm and slippery? When I'm sucking on that big, fat dick?"  
  
"Kyle," Stan says, whining.  
  
"I thought I was 'sir,'" Kyle says. He rubs his finger around Stan's lips, grinning when Stan's tongue darts out to lick his fingertip.  
  
"Suck me," Stan says. He's panting, struggling against his bonds. "Please, I need it."  
  
"Oh," Kyle says, because he's a sucker for Stan when he's like this, broken open by Kyle's teasing. He kisses Stan deeply, thinking about anatomy when their tongues slide together, all those sensors lighting up at the touch, their bodies activated, ready for more. When he slides down between Stan's legs and starts working on his jeans Stan actually whimpers with relief, trying to spread his legs wider.  
  
"Leave it," Stan says when Kyle starts to undo one of the bonds around his leg. "I - I like it," Stan says. His cheeks color. "I always liked it."  
  
"Not an effective punishment, then?" Kyle kisses Stan's knee, then moves up along his thigh, pressing kisses to the inside seam of his jeans. Stan smiles down at him.  
  
"The candy thing was," he says. "But I wanted to eat all of them off your tongue, not just the last one."  
  


Kyle grins, thinking of the first time they gave up the platonic act and just grabbed each other, kissing like two kids who had no idea how to do it and rubbing together until they'd both come in their pants. It was shortly after Kyle's thirteenth birthday, the summer before 8th grade. They were in Stan's bed, reading a _Penthouse_ that Kenny had lent them, and they were both nervous about it, quiet as Stan turned the pages, Kyle chewing on the end of his thumb. He sort of hated the magazine, because he thought Stan was getting off on the women, but he also couldn't drag his eyes away. Eventually, Stan announced that it was too hot in his room, threw the magazine over the side of the bed and took off his shirt. Kyle was limp on the already sweaty sheets, staring up at Stan and gnawing on his thumbnail. Stan's hair was damp at the temples, sticking up funny, and by the time Kyle realized that they'd been staring at each other for way too long there was no turning back: Stan fell onto him, and they dry humped their way to paradise together, their kisses so sloppy and hungry that they both had sore, bitten lips when it was through. They kissed more gently after that, panting against each other's mouths, laughing and whispering _dude_.  
  
Kyle is thinking about those days as he sucks Stan's cock, the early makeout sessions that were so awkward but safe, too, because if he messed something up Stan wouldn't laugh or be disappointed. He'd always seemed to like it when Kyle made things up on the fly, and Kyle loved it when Stan was awkward, because it felt like further proof that they belonged to each other. Nobody else would have taken care of them the way they did while they figured out sex and all its intricacies. He looks up at Stan now, and even with Stan's dick in his mouth he still sees the kid he grew up with looking back at him, blown apart by how good Kyle can make him feel.  
  
"Gonna - gonna come," Stan pants out, twitching against his bonds. Kyle pulls off of him, and Stan whines.  
  
"You should wait," Kyle says. "We should switch sides."  
  
"Kyle, _please_ , fuck, I'm so close -"  
  
"Nuh-uh," Kyle says, smirking. The spanking was always better if he'd truly pissed Stan off during his turn as the teacher. He sits back on his knees and blows gently on the head of Stan's cock, which is leaking steadily now. Stan groans and tries to jerk his hips up, but Kyle moves away before Stan can make contact with any part of him.  
  
"You're being sadistic," Stan says, and there's a hint of not unpleasant surprise in the statement. Kyle shrugs and begins untying his legs.  
  
"Whatever, sensei," he says. "I need my lesson."  
  
"Oh, I'll teach you a lesson," Stan says, and Kyle snorts. He frees Stan's other leg and moves around to undo the tie. Stan gets up shakily and steps out of his jeans and boxer shorts, his cock still pointed straight, looking painfully hard. Kyle can relate; he's ready to burst inside his pants.

"Get undressed," Stan says. He pulls his own shirt off and puts the Broncos tie around his forehead. Kyle can't decide if he's more adorable or hot right now, narrowing his eyes at Kyle the way he always did when he slipped into his karate teacher persona. Kyle undresses more slowly than necessary, walking backward when Stan steps toward him. He's blushing when his clothes are gone, remembering how he used to shake while he waited for Stan's instructions. They never did this naked as kids.  
  
"Have you been practicing?" Stan asks.  
  
"No," Kyle says. Stan shakes his head.  
  
"I thought so. Okay, first we're going to stretch. Turn around."  
  
Kyle does so, facing away from Stan, toward the front windows. He feels a shock of anxiety before realizing that, despite the fact that the curtains are open, no one can see them through the overgrown hedges. Across the street, a leaf blower is whirring.  
  
"Now spread your legs," Stan says. "Wider! Good. Now grab your ankles with both hands."  
  
Kyle's blush creeps down the back of his neck. His breath comes harder as he bends over and takes hold of his ankles, showing Stan his ass, his cock and balls heavy between his legs, so full that they're throbbing with pressure. He feels vulnerable here in the middle of their living room, with that damn leaf blower going outside.  
  
"Good," Stan says, pronouncing the word so slowly that Kyle feels it move down his spine like a shiver. He holds his breath when he hears Stan walking closer, and lets it out in a shaky rush when Stan's hand rests over the small of his back.  
  
"You need to push deeper into the stretch," Stan says. The word _deeper_ makes Kyle's cock twitch, and he feels a fat bead of pre-come dribbling from the tip. "I'll help you," Stan says, so cheerfully that Kyle almost laughs. Instead, his breath catches, because both of Stan's hands are on him now, one sliding down his back to push his chest closer to his thighs, the other snug over the crack of his ass.  
  
"Ah," Kyle says, softly, involuntarily. He closes his eyes.  
  
"Does that hurt?" Stan asks, his hands softening. "Do you need to come up?"  
  
"No, sensei," Kyle says. It actually feels incredibly good, both the stretch and the intense vulnerability, especially with Stan's hand over his ass like this, as if he's protecting it from intruders, or onlookers. Kyle imagines a class full of other students sitting on the floor behind them, watching this, and he moans.  
  
"Quiet," Stan says. He gives Kyle's ass a light slap, mostly using his fingers. "You need to maintain control."  
  
"Yes," Kyle says. His muscles are starting to shake, sweat dripping from his temples and sliding down along the line of his jaw. He holds in another moan when Stan's hand dips between his ass cheeks, feeling for his hole.  
  
"Stay in position," Stan warns as Kyle's thighs begin to twitch. He has to bite his tongue to keep from shouting when Stan's fingertip moves around his opening in slow circles, his other hand sliding back to hold Kyle's cheeks apart.

"Stan," Kyle sobs out when he can't take it anymore - _oh_ , he needs to be fucked, to hell with the spanking, he wants Stan's dick in there so bad.  
  
"Do not address me by my first name," Stan says. He gives Kyle a hard slap on the ass. "It's disrespectful."  
  
"Sorry, sorry," Kyle says, shaking hard now. Stan grunts and reaches down to take hold of Kyle's shoulder, pulling him up slowly, his other hand still buried between Kyle's cheeks.  
  
"Come up one vertebrate at a time," Stan says, and Kyle would laugh hard if he wasn't about to lose his shit, because he's pretty sure Stan got that from his yoga instructor. When Kyle is upright he sways on his feet, and Stan steadies him with one hand on his hip. He turns Kyle around and smirks at him, standing close enough for his cock to brush Kyle's. The contact sends a spark of pleasure down through Kyle's body, and he feels it one vertebrate at a time, his eyes sliding shut.  
  
"You're still too weak to do proper karate," Stan says. Kyle smirks and peeks at him through trembling eyelashes. They rarely made it to any actual karate back in the day. Stan holds up a finger in front of Kyle's face. "Smirking at me now?" he says. "I think you need to be taught some respect."  
  
"Yeah," Kyle says throatily, nodding. Stan narrows his eyes.  
  
"Come here," he says, returning to the chair. He sits and spreads his legs, pats his thigh. "Over my lap."  
  
Kyle is flustered as he makes his way to Stan, his cock still pounding with fullness. They never did it this way as kids, and that was probably for the best. It was weird enough, looking forward to getting spanked by his best friend, and this would have sent things over the top somehow. He lowers himself across Stan's lap, face down, his hands braced against the floor and his ass defenseless again, presented for Stan's punishment.  
  
"I'm not going to count," Stan says, his hand soothing over Kyle's trembling ass. He grips the back of Kyle's neck with his other hand, just hard enough to make his breath catch. "And I'm not going to tell you how many you're going to get. You need to reach a state of meditation, despite the pain, a place where you have no expectations about when this will end. Just surrender yourself and accept whatever comes."  
  
Kyle is reeling, his lips clamped together to hold in nervous laughter or a desperate moan, he's not sure which. Stan has clearly thought about this, and Kyle is left wondering how long he's waited to bring up their childhood weirdness so that it could resume, adult-style.  
  
The first blow somehow comes as a surprise, and Stan shushes Kyle when he shouts. Kyle bites down on his tongue, the pain mirroring the sting on his ass, which spreads across his skin and transforms into something akin to pleasure. That relief is erased when Stan spanks him again, but Kyle is quiet this time, what might have been a whimper shaking through his bones. He's counting on the third and fourth blow, then he remembers what Stan said and tries to obey, letting his mind go blank and concentrating instead on the sensations his body is absorbing: the hard flat of Stan's hand, the heat of his thighs, and the push of his breath, hard through his nose. Kyle is panting while he takes his punishment, his mouth open and his eyes closed, his cock so heavy with need that he can't believe he's able to keep his hips still. He's surrendered, tensing when Stan's hand comes down hard and going limp as the aftermath sinks into his skin, his ass on fire.

"Good," Stan says softly, and Kyle thinks it might be over, but Stan seems to sense that he's having an expectation and spanks him again, harder this time. Kyle is unable to hold in his whimper, but when he goes soft again his mind is empty, his whole body tingling.  
  
"That's good," Stan says, and he rubs his fingers over the tender flesh on Kyle's ass, teasing him with softness. "Now hold still, okay?"  
  
Kyle wasn't moving, but he can't hold back a full body twitch when Stan brings a spit slick finger between his cheeks. He holds his breath and tries not to move again, breathing in humid huffs while Stan feels him.  
  
"This is a test of your control," Stan says. His breath is coming quicker, too, and Kyle can feel the impossible hardness of Stan's cock pressed against his stomach. He's fixated on the sensation until Stan's finger starts working into him, too lube-less to move very fast, entering him so carefully that Kyle can't help pushing back on it, wanting more.  
  
"Stop that," Stan says. He squeezes the back of Kyle's neck and Kyle jerks. He'd forgotten Stan's hand was there. "Stay still. Show me your control."  
  
But Kyle doesn't want to be in control, he wants to fall apart, to cry and beg and slip into mindlessness while Stan fucks him. He whines softly, completely limp in Stan's hands now, his hands in loose fists against the carpet. They curl up tightly when Stan finds his prostate.  
  
"Shhh," Stan says, playing with it, his hand tensing on the back of Kyle's neck again when Kyle jerks, rubbing his cock against Stan's thigh and the side of the chair. "Be still," Stan says.  
  
"Oh, fuck," Kyle says, and he doesn't even recognize his own voice, it's so wrecked, _he's_ so wrecked, convulsing with shudders while Stan rubs his prostate, slow and practiced, so good. "Fuh - fuck - fuck me, Stanley, _please_."  
  
"I think we should wait," Stan says, and Kyle can hear his grin. Every excruciatingly gentle press of his finger is like an electric shock that Kyle wants more of, and his hips are jutting backward now, untamed.  
  
" _Nuhh_ , please," Kyle says, sobbing. "Please, oh, you, I -"  
  
"Do you really think you've earned a fucking from your sensei? You're so _bad_ , Kyle. Look, you can't even keep still, needy little fucker."  
  
"I know," Kyle says, shaking his head, sweat pouring down his face like tears. "I know, I'm bad, fuck me like I'm bad, make me take it, _oh_ , God, please -"  
  
"Alright, okay," Stan says. He's starting to sound pretty wrecked, too, and his hand is shaking as he pulls his finger out. "If you can get the lube for me and make it here and back without humping yourself against something and coming like a bad boy, I'll put it in you." He rubs his cock against Kyle's belly as he says so, and Kyle has to bite the tip of his tongue to keep from coming just from that. He nods and props himself up on shaking arms.

"The - the lube, okay," he says, so absorbed in the game that he's not even sure which decade they're in. "I'll go, yeah, I'll be back." He grabs Stan's face and kisses him deeply, moaning into it, wanting to get down on his knees and thank Stan for being alive, for being weird, for everything.  
  
"Hurry," Stan whispers into Kyle's mouth when he pulls back. He locks eyes with Kyle, showing him his fattened pupils. " _Fuck_ , I need it - you - so much, Kyle, goddamn-"  
  
"Be right back!" Kyle flings himself toward the nearest bathroom. They keep lube under every sink in the house, even in the kitchen. He's back in record time, still hard, so ready to come that he can barely get the lube open. When he has, he dumps too much into his palm and slicks Stan fast, keeping his grip loose so Stan won't go off. Stan licks his lips and spreads his legs, still in the chair.  
  
"Ride me, okay?" Stan says, his voice strained by everything he's holding back.  
  
"Yes, sir," Kyle says, straddling Stan's lap, and Stan groans even before his cockhead touches Kyle's ass. He groans again when Kyle pulls himself open and lines Stan up with his hole, or maybe it's more of a growl. Stan's hands are tight on Kyle's sides, and he's watching Kyle's face as he lowers himself down. Kyle fucking loves it like this, no real prep expect for some prostate teasing. He loves this feeling of being opened by Stan's cock alone, taking it inch by inch.  
  
"You're tight," Stan says breathlessly, as if this is news to him. The skin on Kyle's ass is still raw and burning, and he's brainless as he settles down lower, so wide open now, every conscious thought he can manage directly related to his ass. He's so full, stretched, tender from the spanking, squirming until the head of Stan's cock brushes his already stimulated prostate. He moans as it makes contact, his hands sliding up to Stan's shoulders and his head dropping back.  
  
"That's good," Stan says, whispering now. He's shaking under Kyle's hands, watching him chew his lip and wiggle himself around, jerking every time the angle strikes just right. "Make - make yourself feel good, yeah. That's, _oh_. Kyle." Stan sighs and leans forward to lick Kyle's right nipple, drawing a low whine from him. He tries to hold Stan's head in place, but his hands are too weak to do much of anything, so Stan is free to move over to his left nipple, drawing it between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.  
  
"I'm gonna come," Kyle says, sadly, because he never wants this strung up feeling to end, like he's slipped outside of time and there's nothing real anywhere, just his body and Stan's.  
  
"Me, too," Stan says, whining the words out. "Oh - just - wait. Wanna fuck you hard -"  
  
"Yeah," Kyle groans, leaning forward to cling to Stan, his arms around Stan's neck. "Hard, please, oh, need it-"  
  
"Wait for me, dude," Stan says. Kyle nods, though he's not sure he can. He holds on tight while Stan lifts him out of the chair and kneels down to put him on the floor, leaning up over him, still inside him.  
  
"Please," Kyle says, his head lolling back in forth on the carpet, eyes closed, because if he looks at Stan he'll come. "Fuck it out of me, fuck my ass, make me come -"

"Shh," Stan says, begging, and Kyle knows he should shut up or he won't get the hard thrusts he wants, but he can't stop babbling, lifting his hands to push his fingers into his hair and pull on his curls. He's arching, moaning, pleading with his whole body, not even sure now if he's still speaking or just moaning.  
  
Stan lifts Kyle's legs up easily, almost like he's helping him stretch again, and Kyle would spread them wider if it were physically possible. He shouts with relief when Stan starts pounding him, panting and moving his hips until Stan is hitting _that spot, that spot_ , Kyle doesn't even have a name for it right now, can't think of anything but _right there, right there_ , and can't stop sobbing those words out even though Stan is already slamming him there, again and again, until Kyle comes all over himself, real tears spilling down the sides of his face. Stan is right there with him, making an almost mournful little noise as he drops down onto Kyle, his hips snapping forward with arrhythmic desperation as he pumps his orgasm into Kyle.  
  
There's a moment when Kyle maybe blacks out, because he feels like he's waking from something when he finally cracks his eyes open, Stan heavy and breathless on top of him, both of them dripping with sweat. Kyle takes his shaking hands from his hair and slides one arm across Stan's heaving shoulders, the other cupping the back of his neck. Stan is still inside him, but Kyle can feel him leaking out already. He's pretty sure the load he blew was epic in proportion, too, cooling between his chest and Stan's, gluing them together.  
  
"Shit," Stan says when he manages to lift himself up onto one elbow, his softening cock beginning to slip from Kyle. He grins, looking pretty proud of himself.  
  
"Yeah," Kyle says in agreement. "That, um." He lets Stan roll him onto his side as his cock slides out, come pooling onto the carpet. Kyle is too tired to worry about that right now. He just lies there facing Stan, getting kissed, licking back at him lazily.  
  
"When's the last time we came like that?" Stan asks. "At the same time?"  
  
"I don't know," Kyle says, mumbling. He's pretty sure he's going to take a nap right here on the floor, yep. "That first time we dry humped in your bed?"

"Yeah," Stan says, sounding so dreamy and wistful that Kyle laughs. "Oh, Jesus, Kyle." Stan kisses the tip of his nose. "Was that, like, _foreplay_? The shit we used to do as kids? Like, we were getting each other hot for twenty years later?"  
  
"Maybe," Kyle says. "I don't know. It was pretty innocent, dude."  
  
"Um? Innocent? I was licking candy out of your mouth."  
  
"Innocently! Speaking of candy, pass me those Reese's Pieces. I'm fucking starving, I feel like I just got high."  
  
They eat candy on the floor for awhile, sighing with a self-congratulating air, as if they just scaled a mountain or saved a village. Kyle doesn't nap on the floor after all, because Stan somehow has the energy to carry him over to the couch. He pulls a blanket just up to their waists, as if to protect their modesty, and Kyle laughs as Stan settles down behind him, tucking him against his chest.  
  
"What?" Stan says. He rests his chin on Kyle's shoulder.  
  
"That leaf blower is still going," Kyle says. "That's amazing. I feel like we just fucked for _hours_. I think we time traveled or something."  
  
"Oh, Christ, don't say that."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"'Cause it was like we were kids again! But we were fucking."  
  
"We were ageless," Kyle says, starting to fall asleep, not sure he's making sense. "For at least a few minutes there. We were bigger than numbers."  
  
"Okay, now I think you are high."  
  
"I am," Kyle says, but he's mostly just asleep, sinking into it fast and easy, Stan wrapped around him. He dreams that their house is made of Legos, everything bright and plastic, and he doesn't mind at all.  
  


 


	2. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig and Kenny battle to see who is the toppiest top, using their classmates as the battlefield.

It's definitely the only time in the history of the universe that a war is going to start over Clyde Donovan. At least, that's the only reasoning Kenny can come up with for Craig's fucked up proposal, and his angry pacing, and the I'll-kill-you-with-my-laser-eyes looks he's giving Kenny. They're under the bleachers, smoking, setting up the rules. Last night, Kenny smiled at Clyde over pizza at Tartufo's. Today, Craig is betting him two hundred bucks that he can't bed more of their male classmates than Craig can.  
  
"Does this include Clyde?" Kenny asks when Craig stops pacing. He waits to get punched in the face, but Craig's lips just twist into an angry smirk.  
  
"If you think you can get him," Craig says. "Try."  
  
"Do we get extra points for the super straight ones?" Kenny asks. "Like Token?" He takes a drag, his heartbeat jump roping through the nicotine. "Like Stan?"  
  
Craig snorts. "You consider those two super straight? Shows how much you know."  
  
"Oh, right, I'm sure you've already had them both."   
  
"Anybody we've already had doesn't count unless we have them again, post-bet," Craig says, ducking the question. Of course he hasn't had Token, and Kenny will believe that Craig's ass has given birth to flying pigs before he entertains the suggestion that he might have been with Stan.   
  
"How are we going to prove it?" Kenny asks.   
  
"Details," Craig says. "About how they were. The kind of shit you can't make up. We'll meet here and tell each other everything."  
  
Kenny considers this, surprised that Craig isn't asking for semen samples as proof. It's true that neither of them is particularly creative.  
  
"Fine," Kenny says. He puts his hand out. "May the biggest cock win."   
  
They shake, eyes narrowing. Craig's icy stare is probably meant to warn Kenny off of Clyde. Craig was there at the table last night, beside Clyde, seemingly indifferent, but Kenny is still pretty sure that the casual footsie he played with Clyde under the table is what set this off. His boot accidentally brushed Craig's ankle at one point, and that's when the air in the restaurant got thick.   
  
If Craig is warning him off of Clyde, Kenny is warning Craig off of Stan. Not that he's worried. No way.  
  
**  
  
Two days later, they meet at the scheduled time. Kenny is more punctual than usual, excited about his haul. Two in two days isn't bad. Craig is already there when he arrives, already smoking. Kenny lights up like he's not excited to begin story sharing time.   
  
"So?" he says, because Craig is the king of pretending not to care, and Kenny won't win a battle of who can keep his mouth shut longer. "How many?"  
  
"Two," Craig says.   
  
Damn. Kenny shrugs. "Same here."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"I figured I'd start off easy," Kenny says. "So, Butters."  
  
He feels a stab of guilt. Butters is goodness and light, even when he's moaning for more as he takes it up the ass. Kenny has been fucking him for years. It's uncomplicated by the fact that Butters has to hide his gayness from his parents vigilantly. That means no boyfriend pressure or Valentine's Day gestures.   
  
"Prove it," Craig says, though he's smiling like this is such a foregone conclusion that it barely counts.

"He, um." Kenny wishes he was creative enough to make something up. "He licks my shoulder when he's getting fucked. That's how I know he's about to come. And he's so tight, God, you know, 'cause he's little? Sometimes I make him come like three times when I'm in him, 'cause, um, he clenches."  
  
Kenny doesn't blush, ever, but he's overly warm inside his parka. Craig is still smirking.   
  
"So, one point for you," Craig says. "Though, really. Butters should be half a point."  
  
"Fuck you. Who'd you get that was so great?"  
  
Craig's smugness fades. "Well," he says. "I had a similar strategy. Might as well get the easy ones out of the way."  
  
"Tweek," Kenny says, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"So?" Kenny says when Craig just sucks on his cigarette. "Details?"  
  
"You really need proof?"  
  
"I gave you mine." Kenny glowers at him; he knew Craig wouldn't play fair. "So tell me."   
  
Craig sighs as if this is banal, or beneath him. He scratches his forehead with his thumb, his cigarette poised between his fingers. He's the best looking guy at their high school, but he's also the least charming person in South Park, if not all of North America, so they're pretty evenly matched here.  
  
"Tweek," Craig says. He's staring off into the distance as if he needs to contemplate this deeply before responding. "Well. Maybe it's easier if I just show you." He throws his cigarette down and stomps it out. Kenny experiences something not unlike arousal when Craig turns and pulls his shirt down off his shoulder to show Kenny the scratch marks on his skin.   
  
"Ouch," Kenny says, though he's jealous. In the course of his life he's learned to appreciate certain kinds of pain. Craig shrugs and rearranges his shirt.   
  
"He bites, too," Craig says. "But I'm not showing you where."  
  
"So who else did you get?" Kenny asks, trying not to think of little Tweek-sized bite marks on the inside of Craig's thighs.   
  
"You first," Craig says.   
  
"Oh, we're taking turns?"  
  
"Sure."   
  
"Cartman," Kenny says, grinning as he drops this bombshell. Craig stares at him, blinks.   
  
"Wow," he says.   
  
"Yeah." Kenny puffs up his chest. "He's basically straight edge, did you know that? Like, not even intentionally, he's just more interested in food than booze or weed. Some kind of control thing, probably. So, invited him over to smoke, got him high, put my hand down his pants, bam. Five minutes later he's on his hands and knees for me. He was extremely vocal. I can give you more details if you want them."  
  
"No," Craig says, wincing. "No, thanks. I believe you."  
  
"The way he said my name was pretty great," Kenny says, enjoying the idea that Craig is uncomfortable. "Kee-ny, oh, Keee-ny!"  
  
"Stop!" Craig holds up his hand.   
  
"Fine, ya pussy. Can't handle a little Cartman visual? Guess that's one point we won't be sharing."   
  
"Wait," Craig says. "We can't - once one of us gets someone, he's off the table."   
  
"Nope," Kenny says.   
  
"What do you mean, _nope_?"  
  
Kenny grins. "Your second one was Clyde, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yeah." Craig glowers at him. "And if we're changing the rules, maybe my third one will be Butters."  
  
Kenny shrugs, probably too violently to pull off indifference. "Like I give a fuck. Tell me about Clyde. So I'll know if you were telling the truth when he does the same things with me."   
  
"He would never-" Craig breaks off there, laughing darkly. "It wouldn't be the same. Clyde is - you don't understand. He licks my boots. Literally. He does anything I want."  
  
"Except, you know, not letting me rub his ankle with my foot."   
  
"You really think you can get him?" Craig's smile is poisonous, and Kenny can feel it in his blood, mixing in like motor oil. "I would sincerely love to see you try."

"Good to know. So give me more details. Did he just lick your boots, or did you actually fuck him? 'Cause actual fucking was the bet."  
  
"I fucked him," Craig says. "I've fucked him on his parents' couch while his mother did the dishes in the next room. Not this time, though. This time I brought him here. Right where we're standing." Craig points down at the gravel under their feet. "He's not vocal at all. He gets really quiet and breathes through his nose. He likes it when I pull his hair." Craig is silent for a moment, staring at the spot on the ground where he fucked Clyde. He looks up at Kenny. "He was a virgin before me. I would have needed the jaws of life to pry him off of me after that first time. That doesn't happen twice."  
  
"Goddamn, don't get so worked up," Kenny says, enjoying this. "We've all fucked virgins, Craig. It's not that big of a deal."  
  
"We'll see," Craig says. "This is round two. We can fuck each other's repeats. And I'm not talking about Cartman."  
  
"Keep threatening me like I give a shit." Kenny tries to picture Butters under Craig, who wouldn't take the time or care to open him properly. He's small, Kenny wasn't exaggerating, and he doesn't like pain, but won't say shit if someone's hurting him. Kenny's hands are in fists, and he makes himself uncurl his fingers. He wishes he could believe that Butters wouldn't lie down with anyone who paid him a little attention. He could warn him, but that's against the rules, and he really needs to win this game. Craig is going to move on after high school. So is Butters. This is the only legacy available to Kenny, who will still be here when they're all gone.  
  
"Enjoy round two," Kenny says, saluting Craig. "I know I will."   
  
Craig is trying not to look worried, but his smile is unsteady as Kenny backs away. Now the gloves are fucking off. Kenny turns and jogs toward the school, already hearing Clyde's traitorous little moans. The way he looked at Kenny across the table that night was unmistakable. Craig isn't treating him right. Kenny will show him what he's missing.  
  
**  
  
It's raining two days later when they meet again. Kenny is in a bad mood and dreading this, but he won't be a pussy and back off now. His hood is pulled up over his hair as he walks toward Craig, who seems to be chronically early. There's a black umbrella lying near his feet, and he's struggling to light a cigarette despite the wind.  
  
"Can I bum one of those?" Kenny asks. He's got two in his locker, but he's saving them. Craig rolls his eyes and digs out his pack.  
  
"Don't make this a habit," he says, handing Kenny a cigarette. Kenny sticks it in his mouth and walks forward, waiting to see if Craig will light it for him. Craig just stares for a few beats, then lifts the lighter and flicks it on. Kenny sucks in deeply as the paper crinkles. He loves that sound.   
  
"Thanks," he says, blowing smoke. He looks out at the rain, feeling Craig's eyes on him. "I might as well just tell you. I only got one this week."   
  
"I had the same results," Craig says. Kenny darts his eyes to Craig's, waiting for a taunting expression that will tell him it was Butters. Craig just looks vaguely annoyed.   
  
"I'm not proud of this one," Kenny says. He flicks ashes and looks down at his feet, sighs. "It was Kyle."   
  
"Shit," Craig says, muttering. "He - was that his first time?"  
  
Kenny sniffs. "No. It wasn't even his first time with me."   
  
It's not a regular thing, and it never goes well afterward. It started when Stan reached his limit with Kyle last year: blow jobs are okay, apparently, but ass play was 'weird.' Kyle's ass is a beauteous thing that deserves to be worshiped. Kenny told Kyle this while he was moping over Stan, and one thing led to another. He'll always be there to eat Kyle out when Kyle needs him, but it feels hollow when they're putting their pants back on, and Kenny hates them both for letting each other do this.

"You're not getting details about Kyle," Kenny says. "I can't even - I shouldn't have even told you. I shouldn't have counted him."   
  
"That depressed look on your face is proof enough," Craig says, waving his cigarette through the air. "And I won't tell anyone about you and Kyle, ever, if you promise never to tell anyone who I - got with."   
  
"Who?"   
  
"Token." Craig toes the gravel. "And it was, uh. For the sake of full disclosure: I didn't fuck him, he fucked me. But I think that should count," he says, his eyes snapping up to Kenny's. "Because it's Token. He's, you know. Particularly valuable."   
  
"Hmm." Kenny lets Craig sweat it out for a few seconds, then grins. "No, yeah, that counts. I envy you, dude. I bet that shit was good."   
  
"It was fine," Craig mutters, suddenly bashful.   
  
"Details."  
  
"You didn't -"  
  
"Token is not your Kyle, asshole. And anyway, you were the one getting fucked. Just give me something, man. You can't tell me you had Token up your ass and then just clam up."  
  
"You have to tell me something about Kyle if you want to hear something about Token," Craig says. "You don't know shit about me and him. He's not my _Kyle_ , he's my - I mean, if we're going to compare. He's my Stan."  
  
Kenny blanches, taken off guard. He brings the cigarette up for a long drag.  
  
"Okay," he says, unable to look at Craig while he says this. "Kyle - he, um." All Kenny can think about are the things that are too precious to say out loud: the way Kyle's eyes get big and trusting and how he gives himself up so completely that Kenny wants to protect him more than fuck him, the way he whimpers when Kenny licks into him and sighs while he's taking dick, his tense shoulders finally softening when Kenny is balls deep.   
  
"Kyle's really hands on," Kenny says, settling on this. "He, like, reaches back and rubs my balls while I'm fucking him. And he doesn't like to come until after I have." Kenny should stop now, but he's gushing. "He likes to be fingered after he's been, you know. Opened and, uh. Filled."   
  
"I'm sure there's some disgusting terminology for that," Craig says. He doesn't seem particularly interested; there's never been any sexual tension between him and Kyle, or between anyone and Kyle except for Stan, and Kenny, and possibly Cartman.   
  
"So tell me about Token," Kenny says, letting out a deep breath. He's not sure if he feels cleansed or filthy. "Something good."  
  
"Something good," Craig says, muttering. "Have you ever been topped?"  
  
"Yeah." Freaking Bridon Gueermo. Overrated. "You?"  
  
Craig nods. "Me and Clyde switch," he says. Kenny's eyebrows shoot up.  
  
"That's, um. Unexpected."   
  
"Why?" Craig glowers at him. "Anyway, Token. He's not gay, but I told him about our bet and he said I deserved to be the one getting fucked for making such an asshole bet. So I said he could, and I thought he'd be really, um, punishing, but he wasn't. He made me come three times. And he was big on kissing. So."  
  
Craig seems quietly wrecked, so Kenny gives him a moment. He thinks about calling the whole thing off. He's surprised Craig hasn't asked about Clyde, but maybe Clyde already told him. Kenny invited him over, they smoked, and when Kenny surged in for a stoned kiss Clyde stammered an excuse about needing to leave and high tailed it out of there. That's when Kenny called Kyle, because that's what he and Kyle do when they're feeling rejected.   
  
"Still tied, then," Craig says.   
  
"Saving Butters for last or something?" Kenny asks. Heat builds in his chest, a rising column of flames that lick the back of his throat. Craig shrugs.  
  
"As much as I'd love to enrage you, I'm not looking forward to fucking that squeak toy," he says. Kenny throws his cigarette down.   
  
"Well, all we've got left is repeats," Kenny says. "Unless one of us can get Stan."   
  
"I'm surprised you're even suggesting it," Craig says, smirking. "And you're forgetting Kevin."

"Kevin doesn't like guys," Kenny says. "And I don't think either of us has the kind of history with him where he'd make an exception."   
  
"Stan it is," Craig says. He lifts his boot and puts his cigarette out, grabs his umbrella. "Unless you want to try Clyde again."   
  
"You can have Clyde," Kenny says. "Just - leave Butters alone, okay? You don't know - he - I mean -"  
  
"I tried with Butters," Craig says. He smirks when Kenny stares at him, wide-eyed. "It was a non-starter. He's in love with you."  
  
Hearing that from Craig is like a chest wound. Kenny turns away, his mouth working around wordless protests.   
  
"I'm heading out," Craig says. Kenny hears his umbrella pop open. "I'll see you back here in two days."  
  
"That's a Sunday," Kenny says when he's able to talk again. Craig turns back.  
  
"So?" He shrugs. "I've got no problem spending my Sunday telling you about how I seduced Stan Marsh."   
  
"You've got no idea what you're talking about," Kenny says. He tries forcing a laugh, but it just ends up feeling like a thing that opens the wound in his chest more widely, blood seeping down to soak his shoes.   
  
"We'll see." Craig has a lot of stupid grins, and Kenny has been able to differentiate between them for years now. This one is for real. He thinks he's going to win.   
  
Kenny is left standing under the bleachers, listening to the rain, wondering why Craig thinks he'll win, and what Butters said that made Craig believe that other thing that can't be true.  
  
**  
  
It rains all weekend and Sunday is gray the way leftovers wrapped in aluminum foil are, all the excitement long gone. Kenny is still a little drunk as he makes his way toward the school, though it's got nothing to do with being high anymore, or maybe this particular drunkenness never did. The idea of ever eating food again is laughable. He feels lizard-like, scaly, and wants to shower under hot water, but they haven't had any at his house in months.   
  
When he finds Craig waiting under the bleachers, some hazy part of him wonders if Craig ever leaves, or if he has all his encounters right here, arranging every partner over the same patch of gravel and weeds. He can tell by Craig's expression that things aren't going to be as friendly as they were last time, which probably means that Craig is anticipating admitting defeat, unless he managed to screw Kevin Stoley somehow. Kenny doesn't care much at the moment. He's not even sure why he's here, except that the two hundred bucks Craig probably owes him will pay the gas bill for a couple of months' worth of hot showers.   
  
"You look like shit," Craig says. It feels almost scripted. Kenny shrugs, and shakes his head when Craig offers a cigarette. He watches Craig light one for himself and take a drag.   
  
"I just came for my money," Kenny says. "The two hundred." He pauses, waits, and gets no reaction from Craig. "I know you didn't fuck Stan."  
  
"And you did?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Congratulations." Craig looks legitimately pleased. Maybe he just enjoys seeing people destroy themselves. It seems like the kind of thing he'd be into, casually, as a hobby. "How'd you manage that?"  
  
"Don't worry about it. Do you have the money?"  
  
"Excuse me?" Craig laughs. "Where's my proof? I'm not going to believe this one without some serious details."

Kenny closes his eyes. They feel sore, bruised, and he's beginning to get a headache that will haunt him for days. Serious details. The things Stan said to him are still heavy between his ears, sharper than the pounding at his temples. _Fuck me like you fuck him_. Kenny told him everything about Kyle, all the details that he shouldn't know. It was the only thing he could have possibly said to get that close to Stan, the thing that would tear them both down to place where they had to start from scratch, and he thought Stan would flip him over and fuck him, wanted that actually, but Stan said _Fuck me like you fuck him_ , and Kenny did it, and Stan, who has always been a little bit bigger than him, was so small when Kenny held him, and he felt so good, better than any glimpse of heaven Kenny has known. They were both sobbing like kids who'd just lost their neighborhood to a fire, and they tasted each other's tears when they kissed. Kenny couldn't stop saying he was sorry, pushing the words into Stan's mouth. Stan sucked every _I'm sorry_ in and breathed it back out again, made Kenny swallow his words.   
  
"He tasted like dinner at Kyle's house," Kenny says, not really speaking to Craig, though he's aware that Craig will hear it. "Like roast beef, and these oatmeal cookies Kyle's mom makes. He fell asleep as soon as it was over. He was-" Kenny stops there. Stan slept on his chest, let Kenny smooth his hair and hold him under the blankets on his bed. He was gone in the morning, this morning, a few hours ago.  
  
"Christ, McCormick," Craig says. He still looks alarmingly content, and Kenny allows himself to wonder if Stan was with Craig this weekend, too, but that's impossible. Kenny looked into Stan's fucking soul last night. Craig has never been anywhere near there. Kenny would have seen it.  
  
"So, can I have my money?" Kenny asks. "The week is over. I got four. You only got three, and that's counting the one who fucked you."   
  
"No, I got four." Craig smirks. "And I actually ventured out of the group of friends I've had since pre-school, which should count for two points, really."  
  
"Who?" Kenny asks, listless. He doesn't really care. Craig throws his cigarette down and grinds it into the gravel.  
  
"Kyle," he says.   
  
"What?" There's no part of Kenny that believes that, but then Craig looks up at him, and his eyes are a shade of gray that Kenny has seen in Hell, a devastating emptiness that can't be unseen.   
  
"All I had to do was tell him about you and Stan," Craig says. "About our bet. How you wanted Stan as your prize at the end of the competition. How you were so sure you could get him. He didn't believe me, ran over to your house to prove me wrong. I was there for him after he saw you two through the window, all cozy, fucked out, sleeping like babies. Kyle does this thing where he lets whoever is around fuck him senseless after Stan hurts him. But I guess you know that."  
  
"Wha-" Kenny is going to run at him, but his legs are liquid metal and he can't move. "Wha - why, why would you -"  
  
The icy amusement drains from Craig's face, and there's nothing indifferent in his expression now. He narrows his eyes like he's aiming a weapon.   
  
"Don't you ever even look at him again," Craig says. His voice is low and humorless, a hiss.   
  
"Kyle?" Kenny says, that name breaking in half at the back of his throat. This morning - Kyle - oh - and who will be able to help him now? Not Kenny, not Stan, not Craig, not anybody -  
  
"Clyde," Craig says. He breathes out through his nose as if he's trying to contain a boiling liquid that's been poured into him. "Stay the fuck away from him. Don't look at him, don't talk to him, don't you dare fucking smile at him. You don't know the half of what I'm capable of. You don't know anything about us."  
  
Kenny is frozen inside himself, hearing that over and over in his head, until he understands that Craig isn't just talking about Clyde when he says _us_. He's talking about Tweek and Token, too. Stan used to joke that Craig and those guys were twisted versions of their own group. They were, they are, they must be, because Craig knew exactly how to take Kenny's friends apart. He barely had to lift a finger. Kenny did the real work for him.

"You were actually worried I would go after fucking _Butters_?" Craig says. He grins and steps backward. "Anybody who underestimates me ends up with that look on his face. That look you've got right now. I should take a fucking picture."  
  
Kenny comes to after his body has already made the decision to run at Craig, and he doesn't really wake up to what's happening until they hit the ground, landing hard in the gravel. Kenny isn't hitting him, he's pinning him, fucking _topping_ him, holding Craig's arms behind his back. Craig's breath catches when Kenny's hand hooks around the back of his jeans, and it's victory, _victory_ , Craig is afraid, but Kenny isn't doing this, not really. He lets go of Craig's jeans and grabs a handful of his shirt instead, pulling it until the collar is tight against Craig's throat, choking him.   
  
"Why did you say that he loved me?" Kenny asks, shouting so loud that anyone might hear, but there's nobody around. Craig chokes out an unintelligible response, and Kenny lets up enough to allow him to speak. Craig coughs, trembling hard under Kenny. Everybody underestimates how strong Kenny is. He's indestructible. It's a curse.  
  
"What?" Craig coughs out. "Who - what the fuck are you talking about?"  
  
"Why did you say that about Butters?" Kenny asks. He tugs on Craig's shirt again, listens to him choke. "Just to fuck with me? Just - just to -"  
  
Craig is trying to say something, so Kenny releases him, letting him pant against the gravel. He'll have bruises. Clyde will clean his wounds, Tweek will kiss his sore places, Token will have his back. Craig hasn't lost anything. He must have told them all from the beginning that this was how things would be.   
  
"I said it to fuck with you," Craig says, panting. "Doesn't mean it's not true."  
  
He's still scared, shaking between Kenny's thighs. For a moment there - when Kenny grabbed his jeans - but fuck no, fuck this, he was never that gone. He gets up and stumbles away from Craig, surprised when Craig doesn't pursue him. He walks, but there's no escaping the gray. It's blanketing everything like sodden ash after a fire that's gone out.   
  
Butters will forgive him. Butters always does. Kenny goes there, to the place where Butters is, the house where he's kept prisoner, but no one comes to the door. It's still early. Church. They'll all be at church.  
  
He wants a cigarette, but there's nothing in his pockets except an empty condom wrapper. He puts it in his mouth, holds it on his tongue like a communion wafer. Hands in his empty pockets, he tries to taste Stan against the bitter plastic of the wrapper. There's nothing in his mouth but ash and regret, and neither of them tastes anything like Stan did last night.  
  
He doesn't go into the church, because he's cursed, and he'd probably burst into flames if he stepped in the door. There are worse ways to die, but he doesn't want anyone watching him burn to the ground right now. He looks in the windows, searching for Butters. He sees Stan first, sitting with his mother and staring down at his knees. Kenny touches the window, begs Stan to look up, but he doesn't. They promised each other, just before falling asleep, that they would never tell Kyle. It would destroy him, they decided. It would always be their secret.  
  
Butters is up front with his parents. He seems to actually be listening to the sermon. Kenny wants to be in love with him. He wants to bring him heart shaped boxes of candy on anniversaries that would be difficult to actually define. Their first kiss, their first fuck, the first time Kenny fell asleep with Butters wrapped around him like an insufficiently sized blanket. Kenny has seen Butters' soul, but who hasn't? It's shining and clean right there on the church pew, not even smudged by the filth Kenny has consistently exposed it to. He puts his forehead against the glass and shifts his gaze back to Stan, startling when he sees that Stan is looking at him now, watching him, his lips parted with quiet surprise.

Kenny puts his palm against the window, sweat sealing his skin to the glass. Stan lifts his hand just a little in acknowledgement. He even smiles, looking glad to see Kenny and sad about everything else. He doesn't know about Kyle yet. Kenny takes his hand off the glass and watches the print disappear. Stan is still watching him when he walks away. After a couple of minutes Kenny's phone buzzes, and he digs it out to read Stan's text message.  
  
 _hey sorry I left but I promised my mom I'd drive her here. I should have left a note or something. things are kinda fucked up but it's gonna be ok dude. I promise_  
  
Kenny pulls the condom wrapper out of his mouth and releases it into the wind, watching it skitter across the church parking lot. He's got another unread text message. From Kyle. It's just one word, over and over and over again, filling the whole screen.  
  
 _never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never_  
  
Kenny knows what it means, and that Stan will start singing this tune as soon as he hears from Kyle. He's never getting forgiven, not for this. He wants to hate Craig for doing all of this just because Kenny flirted with Clyde fucking Donovan while he was bored at a pizzeria, but Craig didn't do anything. Kenny did this: to them, to himself, to Butters, even to fucking Cartman. He stops in the middle of the road and closes his eyes, thinking about the details. Kyle's eyes, Stan's mouth, Butters' skin, Cartman's begging. That word is eating all of it like a Pac Man moving across his mind: _never never never_. Never again.


	3. How Kyle Reclaimed Sundays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle finds a baby in the woods when he's sixteen and decides it's probably his. Stan can't seem to disagree.

Even when they're broken up, Stan's Sunday afternoons are devoted to quality time with Wendy. Friday nights are for hanging out with the guys, Saturdays are solely for Kyle, and unless their most recent breakup was particularly vicious, he's happy to reserve Sunday for Wendy. Their parents attend the same church, so afterward they walk home together, bullshitting about whatever is on their minds, and they'll spend the afternoon at the movies (if they're dating), or watching TV in Wendy's living room (if they're back to being just friends).  
  
It's on one of these not-dating afternoons when there's a loud knock on Wendy's front door. Stan was half asleep, and he looks up from Project Runway reruns with alarm, because that knock doesn't sound friendly.  
  
"I'll get it," he says, touching Wendy's shoulder when she tries to get up.  
  
"Why?" Wendy says, laughing. "It's my house."  
  
"Well. I dunno. That knock sounded angry."  
  
"Stan," she says, groaning, but she lets him answer the door.  
  
Kyle is standing on Wendy's front stoop with Ike, looking upset. Only, wait - it's not Ike, Ike is like eight now. It's some other little kid with black hair. When the kid sees Stan he beams and babbles out some nonsense words, reaching for him.  
  
"Uh," Stan says. "Whose kid is that?"  
  
"I don't know," Kyle says, whispering. He peers around Stan to see if Wendy has noticed that he's standing at the door with a baby; of course she has. "Get out here. I need your help."  
  
"What's going on?" Wendy asks. She walks over, her eyes widening when she sees that baby.  
  
"Nothing," Kyle says, and he blushes, for some reason. "I just need Stan's help with something - with, uh, babysitting."  
  
"Whose kid is that?" Stan asks again. Kyle looks slightly crazed, which isn't too unusual, but he's not usually holding a baby when he panics.  
  
"My neighbor's," Kyle blurts, obviously lying. "Get out here, Stan, please." His teeth are gritted, and he's got that there-will-be-blood look in his eyes, so Stan sighs and gets his coat. He was bored with Wendy's TV choices, anyway.  
  
"Do you guys need some help?" Wendy asks. "I'm a really good babysitter -"  
  
"No, thank you," Kyle says, so forcefully that Stan snorts. He pecks Wendy on the cheek, something that's so force of habit that he doesn't stop himself from doing it when they're broken up.  
  
"I'll see you later," he says. She frowns.  
  
"Yeah," she says. "Um, have fun babysitting."  
  
As soon as Wendy's door is closed, Kyle exhales dramatically and hoists the baby up higher on his hip. The baby is still reaching for Stan, starting to whine now, and Stan feels sort of guilty for not accepting his advances. He touches one of the baby's little outstretched hands, and Kyle passes the kid to him without a word. Weirdly, Stan accepts him just as easily.  
  
"So for real, whose kid is this?" Stan asks as the baby coos happily, pulling at the collar of Stan's coat. Stan would guess that he's two years old, though he really doesn't have enough experience with little kids to tell.  
  
"I don't know," Kyle says. "I was walking to Kenny's house and I found him in the woods, crying. As soon as I picked him up he was fine. I should take him to a doctor or something, right?"  
  
"Uh, yeah," Stan says, tightening his grip around the kid, who smells weirdly familiar, and vaguely of graham crackers and apple juice.

"Then why do I feel like, all possessive of him?" Kyle asks. He pulls both the flaps on his hat, tugging it down more snugly over his hair, his latest nervous tic. "If I take him to the doctor or the police or something, they'll take him away from me."  
  
"What?" Stan says. He wonders if he's actually still asleep on Wendy's couch, dreaming. The baby gives his collar a particularly hard tug, and Stan looks down into his little face. Something jabs him in the gut when the baby smiles up at him. Kyle's eyes?  
  
"See!" Kyle says, throwing out an arm. "You can feel it, too! I can tell!"  
  
"Feel what?" Stan asks. He passes the baby back to Kyle, because he's starting to freak out and could possibly faint. He knows that baby somehow.  
  
"He looks like you," Kyle says, hoisting the baby up to examine his face. "Don't you think? That's why I came looking for you. Because I think he's yours."  
  
"Are you kidding?" Stan says. "He has your exact eyes - but, wait, what the fuck?"  
  
"Shh!" Kyle says, covering one of the baby's little ears. "Don't curse around him." The kid seems just as enthusiastic about being held by Kyle as he did by Stan, nuzzling himself closer when Kyle tucks him to his chest.  
  
"Kyle, I don't have a baby," Stan says. "I never got anyone pregnant."  
  
"Are you sure? Maybe Wendy had one and didn't tell you! She was kind of chubby last year around Christmas, remember? Maybe she dumped him in the woods and he's been raised by wolves -"  
  
"Yeah, he's obviously totally feral," Stan says as the baby hums to himself, petting Kyle's chest. "I guess the wolves knit him that little hat, too. And what the fuck - why would Wendy - what are you even _talking_ about?"  
  
"I don't know!" Kyle says. "I can't figure this out. When I first found him, I thought someone had turned you into a two year old. He's got your nose, see?"  
  
"Kyle, I do not have a baby," Stan says, though he feels like a jerk for saying so, especially when the baby turns to smile at him. "That - that's not mine," he says, suddenly feeling like he might cry.  
  
"Fine, then I'll just take him to the police," Kyle says.  
  
"No!" Stan says, and he grabs the baby back from Kyle, hugging him hard. Kyle groans, though he also looks kind of pleased.  
  
"See?" he says. "I feel like he'll be safest with us."  
  
"You're right," Stan says, though that's insane. "At least until we figure out what's going on. My mom's out of town until Wednesday. We can keep him at my house."  
  
"What about school?" Kyle asks.  
  
"Fuck school," Stan says, and he winces when he remembers he shouldn't curse. "Sorry. I mean, who cares? Two days off, big deal. If you have a test or something, I could watch him while you're at school."  
  
"No way!" Kyle says. "I'm not leaving my baby with you. You never even had a younger sibling."  
  
"Oh, so now he's your baby?" Stan says, grinning as Kyle reaches over to take the kid from him.  
  
"Well, I found him," Kyle mutters, hugging him close.  
  
They walk toward Stan's house with the baby, Stan feeling oddly content, waving back when the baby waves at him. If anyone other than Kyle had come to him with a baby he found in the woods, Stan would be horrified, but Kyle always knows what he's doing and this feels right to Stan, too.

"So what should we call him?" Kyle asks. "He needs a name."  
  
"I don't know," Stan says. "Bucky?"  
  
" _Bucky_? That's child abuse! No!"  
  
"Fine, then you name him!"  
  
"Alright." Kyle seems pleased by this offer. He holds the baby out in front of him, studying him like he might be able to read the proper name for him on his forehead.  
  
"Don't say Kyle Jr.," Stan says. Kyle gives him an offended look.  
  
"I wasn't going to! How about, hmm. Dylan?"  
  
"That's too gay," Stan says.  
  
"What! No, it's not! I mean, it's not more gay than _Bucky_."  
  
"He probably already has a name," Stan says. "We should just give him a nickname. A temporary thing, so we won't get too attached. Like a pet name."  
  
"Okay," Kyle says. "How about Chipmunk?"  
  
"Chipmunk?"  
  
"Yeah, 'cause I found him in the woods, and he's little."  
  
"Alright, that works. Chipmunk Marsh."  
  
"Chipmunk Marsh-Broflovski," Kyle says, holding the baby up in front of his face again. The baby - Chipmunk - giggles and tries to grab Kyle's nose.  
  
"That makes it sound like we're a gay couple," Stan says. "That hyphen."  
  
"Well, we did find a baby in the woods with your nose and my eyes," Kyle says, hugging Chipmunk to him again. "Maybe we are a gay couple."  
  
Stan laughs uncomfortably. Kyle finds their potential gayness a lot funnier than Stan does. They kissed last year. It was weird. Weirdly good. Stan promptly got back together with Wendy.  
  
"So, what, I got you pregnant?" Stan says, pretending that he's not turning red.  
  
"Maybe I got you pregnant, smart ass."  
  
"Don't curse," Stan says, pointing at him.  
  
"Oh, sorry." Kyle covers his mouth with his free hand, and Chipmunk gleefully tears it free, laughing like this is a game they're playing. For the remainder of the walk home, Kyle puts his hand over his mouth and lets Chipmunk remove it, both of them laughing hysterically. Stan is laughing, too, though he's got no idea why this is funny.  
  
"What do babies his age eat?" Stan asks when they reach the house. He's never been more happy that his mother's new job requires travel, which is weird, because he's had weekends here with Wendy. This is better, somehow.  
  
"Cheerios," Kyle says. "Ike loved them. And Juicy Juice, and fruit, and Goldfish crackers."  
  
"Cheerios it is," Stan says, grabbing the box off the top of the fridge. "I'll have to go to the store for the other stuff."  
  
They feed Chipmunk milk and Cheerios, both of them _aww_ -ing over how adorable his little fingers look as he lifts the Cheerios to his lips one at a time. He babbles a lot, and finds almost everything they do funny. He's a happy baby, and Stan isn't sure why this should make his eyes wet, like he's proud or something. As kids, Stan and Kyle were the only boys who were willing to play house. They played boy games with the others on the playground, but when they were together on their sacred super best friends Saturdays, they sometimes pretended Stan's room was their house and assigned each other chores. They never had babies, though, unless their egg counts.  
  
Chipmunk falls asleep between them on the couch, slumped against Kyle's side. Kyle removes the little knit hat and neatens Chipmunk's thin black hair, licking his fingers so he can rub the static from it.  
  
"You're such a mom," Stan says, and he actually intended that as a compliment. Kyle frowns at him.  
  
"Eff you," he says.

"No, it's not bad." Stan wants to put his arm around Kyle and tug him and Chipmunk against him. Maybe a blanket could be involved, too. "Like, if I was a dad, and I had to pick a mom for my kid? I'd pick you."  
  
"Why?" Kyle asks. He's blushing now, still frowning.  
  
"Because you're good at this, obviously," Stan says, gesturing to Chipmunk. "And, just. You're smart, but you're um, really warm, too." He should stop talking. He looks at the TV, which is on mute, some cartoon he doesn't recognize playing. He swallows heavily when he feels Kyle's hand on his arm, and turns to him, ready to kiss again, but it's not Kyle touching him, it's Chipmunk, muttering in his sleep as he makes himself comfortable against Stan's side.  
  
"I should get him a blanket," Kyle says, extracting himself carefully. He goes to the hall closet, because of course he knows where the Marshes keep their spare blankets. When he returns he's still blushing, and he avoids Stan's eyes as he drapes the blanket over him and carefully tucks it under Chipmunk's little chin.  
  
"C'mere," Stan says, holding his arm up. Kyle raises his eyebrows.  
  
"What?" he says. "You want to cuddle me, too?" He's trying to make a joke of it, but his lip is shaking a little.  
  
"Yeah," Stan says, his arm still curled around a Kyle-shaped space. "I do."  
  
"Why?" Kyle asks. He toes the carpet, looking five years old for a moment. Stan has known Kyle since he was Chipmunk's age. His earliest memory involves getting in big trouble for drawing a 'flower garden' on the wall of Kyle's bedroom.  
  
"Why?" Stan says. "Because - I don't know. Look, forget it. If you don't want -"  
  
"You know I want to!" Kyle says, getting upset. He glances at Chipmunk, who moans softly in his sleep and shifts a little, rubbing his face on Stan's arm. "Just - not now. There's too much going on!"  
  
"Kyle, I think this baby is ours."  
  
"That makes no sense!"  
  
"I know that! I'm not the one who brought him to Wendy's house and expected me to just go along with it. But it's weird." Stan slips his arm around Chipmunk, careful not to wake him. "I don't even like little kids, but I want to keep this one forever, 'cause he's mine."  
  
"Me too," Kyle says. He moans and pulls on his hat flaps again. "Stan, what the hell?"  
  
"I don't know what the hell, just come over here, okay?"  
  
This time, Kyle hurries to him, slipping under Stan's other arm and pulling his legs up under the blanket. He moans a little as he gets comfortable, not unlike Chipmunk, who is frowning in his sleep like he's concentrating on solving a hard math problem. It makes him look so much like Kyle that Stan feels a thickness in his throat, not quite tears but something similar. He doesn't want to wake Chipmunk, so he turns and kisses Kyle's cheek instead.  
  
"Don't," Kyle says, whispering.  
  
"Why not?" Stan asks.  
  
"'Cause, I don't know. You'll just go back to Wendy. You don't really care."  
  
"What? About you? I care too much. That's why I go back to her."  
  
"That makes no sense, you ass," Kyle says, frowning.  
  
"No kidding. Neither does the fact that we found our hybrid offspring wandering in the woods." Stan kisses Kyle's other cheek, the tip of his nose, and then, softly, his lips. "It doesn't have to make sense," he says, whispering. "I just feel it."  
  
"Stan," Kyle says. He kisses him again, meeting the tip of Stan's tongue just timidly with his own, and breaking free before it can get too heated. They both look down at Chipmunk, who is still sleeping, his little fingers curled around the side of Stan's shirt. With Kyle under one arm and Chipmunk under the other, Stan feels so cozy that he's actually sad that it's not raining outside, because that would make the fact that they're all warm under this blanket that much better. He buries his face in Kyle's hair and breathes in the smell of him, which is a lot like Chipmunk's, that familiar thing that makes Stan want to hold both of them forever.  
  
There's a knock on the door, and all three of them startle. Stan had fallen asleep, and Kyle had, too, his head lifting from Stan's shoulder. Chipmunk whines nervously, and Stan picks him up, shushes him, and passes him to Kyle.

"I'll get the door," Stan says.  
  
"It's probably just a delivery," Kyle says, but he's holding onto Chipmunk tightly, rubbing his back. Chipmunk looks sleepy and scared. He's sucking on the knuckle of his thumb, something Shelley used to do when she was little.  
  
Stan answers the door, relieved to find that it's just Kenny, until he realizes that Kenny has somehow aged fifteen years and grown a couple of inches taller since the last time he saw him.  
  
"Stan!" Kenny says. His voice is the same, but Stan is still frozen in shock, taking in his full-grown body.  
  
"Kenny, what - what happened to your _face_?" Kyle asks, peering at Kenny from over the back of the sofa.  
  
"Chipmunk!" Kenny says, grinning when he sees the little boy peeking over the couch. "Oh, Jesus, thank God."  
  
"How do you know Chipmunk?" Stan asks, increasingly nervous about grown-up Kenny.  
  
"Kind of a long story," Kenny says. He takes a deep breath, looking from Kyle to Stan. "It involves Kyle accidentally inventing a time travel machine, and your son wandering into the device, and the two of you freaking out and sending me here, because if you came you'd disrupt the space time continuum."  
  
"He's high," Stan announces to Kyle, who groans.  
  
"No, I'm not!" Kenny says. "Look at me, Stan. I'm thirty-five years old. I didn't just smoke too many cigarettes last night. I'm from the future!"  
  
"Oh, God," Kyle says. "I knew it. This is our baby, isn't it? We just haven't had him yet."  
  
"Wait, wait," Stan says, waving his hands through the air. "Wait."  
  
"No can do, I'm afraid," Kenny says. "I'd love to stay and smoke one with you guys, but my window's closing fast, and I need to get your son back to the thirty-five year old versions of you guys, 'cause, no offense, but they can take much better care of him than your sixteen year old selves."  
  
"How do we know you're telling the truth?" Kyle asks, hugging Chipmunk to him. Chipmunk seems pleased to see Kenny, babbling and holding his hand out like he wants Kenny slap him a high five.  
  
"You just have to trust me," Kenny says. "C'mon, guys. Your future selves will never forgive me if I let teenagers raise their baby. Even if those teenagers are - them. Plus, do you really want to change his diapers?"  
  
"I thought I smelled something," Kyle says, making a face.  
  
"Hand him over," Kenny says, walking to the couch. "I'll bring him back to the future so you can change him there, in twenty years."  
  
"Can't future Stan change him?" Kyle asks, frowning. He's still holding on to Chipmunk, eying Kenny warily.  
  
"Wait, how did we have a baby?" Stan asks. "Did Kyle invent male pregnancy, too?"  
  
"If I did, I better have tried it on Stan," Kyle says.  
  
"No, dimwits, Shelley was your surrogate. Kyle was the biological father. Now hand him over, dude, or he's going to grow up in South Park instead of Denver."  
  
"Oh, God," Kyle says. "Okay, I'll - just give me a second." He turns Chipmunk toward him and kisses his fat little cheeks, moaning sadly. "I can't believe I have to wait twenty years to see him again."  
  
Stan walks over and kneels down behind the couch, straightening Chipmunk's hair when he looks at him with confusion. Chipmunk makes a questioning little sound that might have contained the syllable _da_ , and Stan kisses the top of his head, walking to the other side of the room before he can burst into tears.  
  
"C'mon, dude," Kenny says to Chipmunk as he lifts him into his arms. Chipmunk babbles at Kenny as if he wants to tell him about his adventure. "Yeah, I know," Kenny says, patting him. "Dang, you need a diaper change in a big way."  
  
"Wait!" Kyle says, leaping over the back of the couch as Kenny heads toward the door. "There's so much I need to ask - about the future, about this thing I invent -"

"Don't sweat it, man," Kenny says. "Everything works out great. I'm pretty sure you guys lose your virginity to each other this afternoon, if I'm remembering the story correctly."  
  
Kyle looks at Stan, wide-eyed, and Stan feels his stomach lurch with nerves, his cock twitching as if to cast its vote in favor of that plan.  
  
"Do we seriously name our kid Chipmunk?" Stan asks, wanting to change the subject as his cheeks burn red.  
  
"No, that's just his nickname," Kenny says.  
  
"So what's his real name?" Kyle asks.  
  
"If I tell you, that will spoil the fun of listening to you guys fight about what to name him for nine months," Kenny says. "Alright - I gotta run - literally. Ready, buddy?" he says to Chipmunk, who beams at him. "Wave goodbye to Mommy and Daddy," he says, backing toward the door.  
  
"Which one of us is Mommy?" Kyle asks. He sounds like he'll cry, returning Chipmunk's confused little wave.  
  
"Uh, never mind," Kenny says. "See you guys, um. When you grow up. Bye!"  
  
He dashes off then, and Stan can hear Chipmunk start to cry. Stan looks at Kyle, both of them wet-eyed and panicked, and they run for the door, ready to reclaim Chipmunk and comfort him, but when they get there there's a very bright flash from out in the yard, and when their eyes readjust Kenny and Chipmunk are gone.  
  
For a long time they just stand there, mouths open, tears leaking, and then Stan realizes that he's holding Kyle's hand.  
  
"Well," Kyle says, sniffling. "Um. I guess we have some stuff to look forward to."  
  
"What Kenny said." Stan squeezes Kyle's hand. "About this afternoon."  
  
"Oh - yeah." Kyle laughs nervously. "Totally the kind of bullshit Kenny would say. You know. As a joke."  
  
"Kyle?" Stan shuts the door, pulling Kyle back into the house.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Um, I - this is gay, but, I'm feeling really vulnerable right now, and maybe, like, we could cuddle, like, up in my bed-"  
  
"Fuck cuddling," Kyle says, his voice all broken up as he jumps - literally - into Stan's arms. "I want your _babies_ , I want ten of them, I want everything, please, God - take me up there and fuck me like you're knocking me up."  
  
So Kenny's prophecy comes true, up in Stan's bed, and while Stan holds Kyle afterward he wonders if Kenny really was just bullshitting but also ultimately responsible for their first time, both of them so wet for it that even the barest suggestion would have set them off. He never thought the pillow talk he'd have after losing his virginity would involve plans for his son's pee wee hockey career, but as he lies there playing with Kyle's curls, he's pretty sure he always knew that it would be Kyle, first and last, forever.


	4. Hell Yeah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pip cross dresses for Damien in Hell.

Damien has always said that he can't be gay, because if he was that would mean he would be like his father, and being as unlike his father as possible is Damien's stated life goal. Pip thinks they have more in common than any father and son he's ever known, but he would never tell Damien that, or that the things he does to Pip probably mean he is gay. Damien seems to think that if he doesn't kiss, suck on, or fuck any part of Pip, that means their acquaintance-hood (Damien refuses to call Pip his friend) is as straight as an arrow. Apparently, the other things Damien does to Pip don't count: jerking off on his face, tying him up and torturing his nipples, and refusing to allow Pip to spend his nights in Hell anywhere but in Damien's bed, where Damien sleeps with his face buried between Pip's shoulder blades, his arms wrapped around Pip in a vice grip that he couldn't escape from even if he wanted to. No, none of that is gay, because Damien can't be gay. 

“How old are we today?” Pip asks when he wakes up on what might be his twenty-fifth or two hundred and fifty thousandth day in Hell. It's hard to keep track, and hard to imagine how he would stay sane if he didn't have Damien here to entertain him. 

“You're too young,” Damien says, scowling at Pip. They're still in bed, could stay in bed all day if they wanted to, but Damien usually has some business to attend to and always brings Pip along. Pip closes his eyes and tries to focus on being older than he was when he died. That age tends to be his default when he's not trying, but Damien is almost always a teenager, and he gets mad at Pip for being puny. 

“Better?” Pip says when he opens his eyes again. Damien doesn't answer, just yanks the blankets away and scans Pip's body. The boxer briefs that were baggy on him when he woke up are tight now, and he's got fine blond hair on his legs and arms. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Damien says. He runs his hands through his dark hair and stays propped up on his elbow, looking annoyed. He's in a bad mood all the time now, because his teenage body wants sex, and for some reason he's not getting it from anyone, just making Pip kneel down for face fulls of come, forbidding him from offering a helping hand. Pip wanted Damien to do terrible things to him pretty much the instant he learned how to age himself up and got a boatload of teenage hormones dumped into his body-soul-hybrid existence all at once, and he's hard inside his boxer briefs just from being close to Damien like this, waiting to see if this will be the morning when he gives in. 

Damien gets out of bed, grumbling, and Pip lies there feeling defeated. He's supposed to follow Damien wherever he goes, but maybe if he disobeys he'll get punished, which is the closest he can get to sex. When Damien spanks him, at least he's touching Pip's ass. 

“What's on the agenda today?” Pip asks, trying to be cheerful. He sits up in bed and touches himself idly under the blankets. Damien makes him do it sometimes, so he can watch, and it's fine, it's okay, but Pip is tired of his own hand. 

“I've got an errand to run,” Damien says. “You stay here.”

“What?” Pip is taken aback. He might not be sure exactly how long he's been here, but it's definitely been awhile, and in all that time he's never spent a day in Hell alone. Damien found him crying that first day, sat beside him and scowled at him until he stopped. Pip put his wet face against Damien's shoulder, still so upset about dying and where he'd ended up (not a Mormon, blast) that he was willing to risk the wrath of the son of Satan for the chance that he might get some comfort instead. Damien must have thought him ballsy for doing it, because he just sighed as if annoyed, put his arm around Pip and told him that nobody – except him – was going to fuck with him here. 

“Did I stutter?” Damien asks when Pip stares at him, open-mouthed. “This is a personal errand. You stay put. Don't move from my fucking bed, okay?”

"I – but – where –" Pip wasn't prepared to feel this lost at the thought that Damien might want to be away from him, because since that first day, that first hug (that Damien would never ever have referred to as such), he's never entertained the idea that Damien would let him out of his sight. He's possessive on the exact level that Pip-the-unwanted-orphan has always hoped to be possessed. 

"It's none of your concern," Damien says coldly, and then he's gone, the door slammed and locked behind him. Pip is left staring at the door, wibbling, waiting for Damien to return and tell him that this was just a joke meant to make him feel stupid for believing it could be real.

For awhile Pip just cries, chewing on the bedsheets. But he's more resilient than anyone in South Park ever wanted to give him credit for, and eventually he's plotting, trying to figure out how to recapture the one thing he's ever had. Damien probably went out looking for sex, tired of waiting to figure out what to do with Pip, who he obviously desires but can't allow himself to touch, lest he turn into his father, a slave to his self-sabotaging impulses. Pip needs to get creative here, or he's going to be in Hell for real, not just in a massively unwelcoming place where he gets cuddled in posh digs by a guy whose father was the most beautiful angel in heaven before he fell. 

It doesn't take Pip long to come up with a proper plan: Damien doesn't want to be gay, fine, but he wants to fuck Pip. There's no way he would blow his load on Pip's upturned face with such regularity if that wasn't true. So, the solution is simple.

Pip needs to be a girl for awhile.

He's been given some powers by Damien, but nothing that enables him to actually change his anatomy. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to, because he likes having a penis and isn't interest in breasts, either as a squeezer or possessor. Anyway, Damien is probably the love of his life (death? afterlife?), but he's also an idiot: he's gay. If he wanted a woman he would have kicked Pip out of bed long ago. He wants Pip, maybe just because Pip was the first human he got a leg up on when he came to Earth as a kid, but whatever the reason, Pip is pretty sure that if the stubborn bastard let go of his Daddy issues for five seconds he would really quite enjoy some gay sex. So, his plan is twofold (in the best way).

When Damien returns a few hours later, all is in place. Pip is in the middle of the bed, having enchanted a pillowcase and t-shirt into a tight pink nightie and some sheer black knee highs, a comb having become two dainty little barrettes in his hair (no hair modifications necessary: his hair is already past his ears, fine and blond, appropriately girly). He's gotten rid of the hair on his legs, but he's still teenaged: slim-hipped, soft, his nails painted pale purple. 

Damien stares. He's wearing a suit, which Pip would remark on under any other circumstances, because what the fuck was that errand he ran – an interview for a bank manager position? Damien's suit isn't entirely corporate, cut tightly with wide lapels. His tie is simple red, but it's deep and rusty, the color of dried blood. Pip spreads his knees on the bed, hoping he looks alright, blushing. 

"I turned myself into a girl," he says, because by the time Damien reaches between Pip's legs and discovers that this isn't true, he'll be too far gone to care. Pip sucks on the end of one finger, making his expression pouty and needful. He arches as if to thrust out the breasts he doesn't have, making audible sucking noises around his finger. Damien's hands flex at his sides.

"What," he says, and something about his unpreparedness makes him seem older than he ever has. 

"Please," Pip says, whining. He falls back onto the pillows, spreading his legs wider and holding the skirt of the nightie over his crotch to conceal the bulge inside his panties (transfigured from a washcloth). "Now that I'm a girl – ah. I _need_ you. I'm so _wet_ , Damien, _please_." 

Damien walks toward the bed, tugging at his tie. He's licking his lips, looking as if he wants to get angry and can't quite manage it. He steps out of his shoes, kicking them away. 

"You – you don't have that kind of power," he says. He shrugs his jacket off, letting it drop to the floor.

"You gave me this power," Pip says. He rolls his hips up, letting his head fall back, moaning. "You did this to me. It hurts, oh! Make it stop, please! Put that big dick in me!"

He's aware that he's no thespian, not even in the pornographic sense, but Damien seems affected anyway. He's breathing through his nose as he crawls across the bed, toward Pip, and he's quickly perched over him on all fours, staring down at him like an agitated bull.

"Little slut," Damien growls, grabbing a handful of Pip's hair. Pip shouts as Damien pulls his head back, exposing his throat more completely. They both sigh when Damien licks and bites at Pip's neck, and tears gather in the corners of Pip's eyes as he realizes how badly he's wanted this: just Damien's mouth on him, his cock straining against his transfigured panties.

"A girl, huh?" Damien says, showing Pip his canine teeth as he reaches down between his legs and wraps his fist around Pip's cock, painfully tight. Pip whimpers and gives him a pleading look, chewing his lip. Damien narrows his eyes. He could blast Pip into something worse than Hell, but anyplace without him has been worse than Hell since that day when Damien let Pip cling to him and cry. 

"I –" Pip says, stammering. "I didn't, I only –"

"I knew you were a girl," Damien says. There's something spinning in his eyes, and it's not dark or hard, it's the softest thing Pip has ever seen, full of delusion and desperation. "That's why – that's why I took care of you."

"Yes," Pip says, whispering, nodding, agreeing to be a girl even as Damien massages pre-come from his cock. 

"You're my girl," Damien says, his eyes boring into Pip's so deeply that he feels like he's been penetrated already, wide open. "Aren't you?"

"Oh – yes!" Pip cries as he says so, not with tears but with something just as intractable, though he knows he's not a girl and that Damien knows that, too. "I'm yours – your girl – whatever you want."

Damien should have known this for some time now, but apparently it's news to him, because he unleashes himself in a way that Pip has been craving for countless days. He tears Pip's panties away and conjures a bottle of lube that he spills everywhere in his haste. Pip pants up at him, his legs spread and trembling, everything he has on offer. It will be over fast: even demons can't control everything. Pip doesn't care, just wants to keep kissing Damien like this, hard and hungry while their bodies slam together. Their souls are slamming together, too, in the stupidly inadequate way that souls do. Pip asked Damien about that early on, and was informed (angrily) that Damien's mother was a mortal. He has a painfully mortal soul; Pip can feel it now, pressed up against his own.

Pip comes without caring much, still waiting to see Damien come while he's inside him, because he's felt it on his face so many times but never in a place where it could mean more than a mess wiped off his cheeks. He's not sure why his ass feels sacred right now, but maybe it's just because that's the place where Damien seems to fit within him, and he screams when Damien comes, clawing his hands around Damien's shoulders while he pumps him full. Damien rips his tie off, panting, still easing down from his orgasm as he ties Pip's hands over his head.

"Liar," Damien says, breathing the word down into Pip's face. "L-liar, fucking liar, not a girl." 

"Ah – but –" Pip says, not sure how to continue, his chest shuddering with fear. Damien shakes his head.

"You're a boy," Damien says, whispering the words down into Pip's face like he's that faerie who granted Pinocchio's wish, telling him he was a real boy now. "You're my boy, mine – my – fucking –" He gives up on words, because Pip is whatever Damien wants him to be. He could have turned Pip into a platypus on day one if that was the brand of snatch he wanted to screw. Pip knew that, knows that, and was willing to wait for Damien to figure it out. He wraps his arms around Damien and kisses him back, his legs still snug around the small of Damien's back, the nightie rucked up and ruined. 

"But why," Pip says when Damien finally stops kissing him, both of them struggling for breath. "Why, um. The suit?"

"Job interview," Damien says, and Pip laughs, but Damien seems serious. "On Earth," he says, frowning. "Manager of Denny's. I thought. Because. You seemed bored. I thought you might like to live on Earth for awhile."

"We can live on Earth?" Pip says. His eyes fill up with a kind of moisture that doesn't feel like tears, because he's not sad, he's the opposite of sad.

"We can live wherever you want," Damien says, frowning, like he can't believe that this is news to Pip, who just kisses him, because they can look like they're eighty years old if they want to, but they still have a lot to learn, and they're going to teach each other, no matter how long it takes.


	5. Five Guys Naked in a Metaphorical Hot Tub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trent Boyett is getting out of prison tomorrow, and the boys don't want to die as virgins, so Kenny convinces them they should all have sex until dawn.

Kenny is the first one to get naked, but that's no surprise. The surprise is that Butters takes his clothes off next, blushing and shoving his pants down quickly, and his dick is just as cute as Kenny knew it would be. Butters steps closer to Kenny, covering himself with both hands, and Kenny gets the feeling that he only undressed so that Kenny wouldn't be alone in his nakedness.

"This is some fucked up shit right here," Stan says, and Kenny grins, because it's been a long time since he heard Stan say that. They should drag all of the old catch phrases out tonight, he thinks. He puts his hand on the soft curve of Butters' ass, starting to get hard for real when Butters gasps.

"Sorry," Kenny says, taking his hand away.

"That's okay," Butters says. He looks at him shyly. 

"I'm only doing this if you all agree to suck my balls," Cartman says, unfastening his pants. "That includes you, Kyle."

"Fat chance, asshole," Kyle says. He's next to Stan on the bed, his face on fire. Stan is surprisingly calm, his eyes raking up and down Kenny's body for a second time. "You guys are fucking lunatics," Kyle says. "Me and Stan aren't doing this. Right, Stan?"

"I don't know," Stan says. He pulls his shirt off and throws it on the floor. Kyle stares at him, open-mouthed. "We are going to die tomorrow, dude," Stan says. He's sad about this, for real, which is killing the mood, so Kenny walks over to him, his hand on his dick. He watches Stan's gaze sink down to it, and his mouth is open now, too, but not widely. 

"Gonna take your pants off, too?" Kenny asks Stan, who stares up at him like he feels sorry for him or something. Behind them, Butters yelps, and Kenny turns to see a suddenly very naked Cartman hoisting Butters up to straddle his hips. 

"This little slut's already hard," Cartman says, smirking up at Butters, who moans and clings to him, hiding his face against Cartman's neck. Cartman in the nude is not visually appealing on its own; he's got some muscle now, but still plenty of fat, his big thighs dimpled with it. Adding Butters to the equation, however, is alarmingly hot. He's so much smaller than Cartman, and still so happy to have any attention from him, biting his lip and humping himself against the rolls of fat at Cartman's stomach while Cartman digs his fingers in between his ass crack.

"There's lube in my bag," Kenny says, still stroking himself.

"I can't watch this," Kyle says with a groan. He hides his face against Stan's back, his arm snaking across Stan's chest. Kenny gives Stan a knowing smile, and Stan frowns. They both know Kyle only showed up so that Stan would finally, finally kiss him. Kenny has much grander plans for Kyle if he's willing, and Kenny thinks he will be. He's banking on Stan's mouth turning Kyle into an instant sex maniac. Someone who's waited this long to be kissed has got to pop sometime.

"Well?" Kenny says to Stan. "Pants on or off?"

"On for now," Stan says. 

"Suit yourself." Kenny glances down between Stan's legs, but he doesn't seem to have a boner, which is disappointing. He turns back to Cartman and Butters. Cartman has laid Butters out on the floor and is rooting through Kenny's bag.

"Don't you have any flavored lube?" Cartman asks. "Or is there nothing but cheap ass ghetto lube in here?"

"Why do you need it to be flavored?" Kenny asks. He drops down onto the floor beside Butters, because he looks nervous, on his back with his knees bent and pressed together. "Are you gonna eat him out or something?" Kenny asks. He lets Butters roll onto his side and hide himself, puts an arm around him. Butters is warm, and shaking a little.

"No, Kenny, you dumb asshole," Cartman says, approaching with the lube. "I just wanted to ask Kyle which flavor he'd prefer to lick off my balls."

"I'm not licking your balls, fat ass!" Kyle says, lifting his face to peek at them from over Stan's shoulder. Kenny wants to give them instructions, to tell Stan how to touch Kyle, but he doesn't want to press them too soon and scare one or both of them away.

"Hey, find your own," Cartman says, kneeling down and taking Butters by the hip. He turns him onto his back again. Butters is still hard, his blush creeping onto the backs of his ears.

"Can't we share him?" Kenny asks. He looks at Butters. "Would you like that?"

"Well, sure!" Butters brightens at the idea. He's always enjoyed being generous with himself. Kenny skims his hand down over Butters' chest, which is soft and trembling like the rest of him.

"Fine, but I get to fuck him first," Cartman says. 

"Jesus, Cartman, since when are you even gay?" Kyle shouts from across the room. Cartman shrugs.

"If it's tight and hot and my dick fits in it, what the hell do I care?" He squirts lube into his palm. "Spread 'em, Butters."

"By that logic, you might as well fuck a large mouth bass," Kyle says, unable to let this go, apparently. 

"Dude, don't say that," Stan says. "That's animal abuse."

"Everybody shut up," Kenny says. "You're making Butters nervous." 

"He has every right to be nervous!" That was Kyle, of course.

"Ah - it's okay, Kenny, really," Butters says. He moans and presses his face to Kenny's arm as Cartman plays around between his legs, rubbing lube onto him. Butters has his legs lifted and spread, knees bent, and his chest is skittering fearfully, but his toes are curled, nipples hard. His cock is hard, too, and Kenny reaches down to stroke it while Cartman begins to push inside him. Butters' mouth falls open around a soft exclamation, his cock twitching in Kenny's hand. 

"Now that is a tight fucking ass," Cartman says. He's wasted no time, his finger already in as deeply as it can go. 

"You okay?" Kenny asks Butters in a whisper, and he nods, tilting his head to show Kenny his dazed expression. 

"Eric's done this to me before," he says. His tongue darts out to capture some drool that leaked from the corner of his lips. "It's kinda weird but it feels real good - ah!" He arches, throwing his head back.

"Heh," Cartman says, smirking at Kenny. "Prostate."

Kenny shrugs, unimpressed, and looks back to Kyle and Stan. Kyle is hanging on Stan's shoulders, and they're both watching the action on the other side of the room intently, mouths open, eyes glazed. Stan is still just shirtless, and Kyle hasn't even taken off his jacket.

"Have you guys ever had a prostate massage?" Kenny asks while Butters writhes and squirms on Cartman's finger, crying out. 

"What - us?" Stan says. He sputters with laughter. "Um, I haven't." He turns to look at Kyle, his nose bumping Kyle's when he does. "Have you?"

"Stan! No!" Kyle is purple with humiliation now, ducking mostly behind Stan again. Stan smiles and touches his nose to Kyle's cheek. 

"Just checking," he says. Kyle grumbles something unintelligible, and Kenny can't see his mouth from behind Stan's shoulder, but he seems like he's smiling a little bit, just in his eyes.

"Hey, move," Kenny says, turning back to Cartman. "I'm gonna suck his dick while you do that." 

"Nuhh, I want to be the one who makes him come!" Cartman says, pushing Kenny away. Kenny groans, though he's secretly pleased.

"Stan, Cartman is hoarding Butters," Kenny says. "Why don't you come over here and let me show you how good this feels?"

"Shut up, Kenny!" Kyle says, his arms tightening around Stan's chest. Kenny meets Stan's eyes, and grins when he sees some interest in them.

"I don't know how I feel about stuff going up my ass," Stan says.

"But this could be your last chance to try it!" Kenny says. "And it feels really good - Butters?" Kenny scoots over to rub his finger around one of Butters' nipples. He's shaking hard now, moaning, and he's going to come soon, but Cartman is drawing it out, watching Butters like he's his dying prey. "Tell Stan how good this feels," Kenny says, smoothing Butters' hair from his sweaty forehead. "Tell him, go on."

"Gah - s'good, Stan, s'real good," Butters says, blubbering. Cartman adds some flourish to this statement by making Butters scream with pleasure and come all over himself. Kenny watches him wind back down, breathing hard, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as his face slackens with satiation. Kenny is hard as hell and throbbing in his own hand, envying the shit out of Cartman as he chuckles and lines his cock up. He lifts Butters by the backs of his knees so that his ass is presented, dripping lube. Kenny groans inadvertently.

"You can kiss him if you want," Cartman says, teasing Butters' hole with the tip of his cock. "He likes that, getting kissed."

Kenny isn't such a big fan of kissing himself, but Butters tastes sweet and parts his little pink lips for Kenny's tongue, panting into Kenny's mouth as he takes Cartman's cock. Cartman is actually going slow now, maybe just out of necessity. His cock is a big, fat monster like the rest of him. 

"You okay?" Kenny asks again, whispering this against Butters' hot cheek. Butters nods, eyelashes fluttering. 

"Suck on my nipples?" Butters asks, so sweetly that Kenny can't refuse, though he has to do one thing before he complies with that request. He looks at Stan and Kyle. They're quiet, enthralled, Kyle's chin resting on Stan's shoulder. Kenny smirks when he sees that Stan has gotten hard. He's fidgeting a little, trying to get comfortable with his cock pressed tightly against the crotch of his jeans. 

"Stan, c'mere," Kenny says. "I can only suck one nipple at a time."

Kyle scoffs. "Stan does not want to suck Butters' nipples," he says.

"Actually, I'll try it," Stan says. He stands up, Kyle's arms sliding off of him. "I mean, nipples aren't that weird, you know. Girls have nipples." 

Kyle is left on the bed, too stunned to think to cover his lap with a pillow before Kenny can spot his erection. 

"Atta boy," Kenny says as Stan walks over. Cartman is fucking Butters is slow drags now, doing a low moan thing that's half gross and half disturbingly arousing. "Take your pants off first," Kenny says when Stan starts to take a seat at Butters' other side. He's surprised when Stan actually does it, his erection all the more obvious when he's only wearing boxers. He adjusts them and looks at Kenny, blushing. 

"Come on," Kenny says, coaxing Stan down. "I bet Butters' nipples taste really good. Damn, look how cute they are."

"Ah - Kenny," Butters says, grabbing his arm for support when Cartman starts grunting and giving it to him harder, his heavy balls starting to make a slapping sound with each thrust.

"Bitch!" Cartman says, gritting his teeth and fucking Butters harder. "Don't say his name while I'm in you!"

"S-sorry," Butters says, grabbing for Stan with his other hand. He arches, begging to have his nipples sucked. Kenny lowers his head, almost blowing his load when Stan does, too. They watch each other, Stan mimicking the movements of Kenny's tongue, both of them lapping at Butters' nipples just softly. When Kenny circles one little nub with the tip of his tongue, Stan does the same. 

"Suck on him," Kenny says, and Stan does, still watching Kenny. Butters cries out, his hand squeezing around Kenny's arm, and Kenny answers his plea by sucking on his other nipple. Cartman is going to come soon, his thrusts getting wild, sputtering curses flying wetly from his lips. Kenny drags his teeth over Butters' nipple and pulls back a bit, checking the position of Kyle. 

Kyle is halfway to them, on the floor, on his knees, looking devastated. Still wearing all his clothes, jacket included. 

"Here it comes," Cartman says. "Yeh, yeah, squeeze me, bitch, yeah-"

Cartman throws his head back and groans deeply, and Kenny is surprised by how hot it is, watching Cartman unload into Butters. Butters squeaks and tightens his grip around Kenny and Stan's arms as if he's afraid he'll be swept away by the force of it. Kenny backs off as Cartman tips forward onto Butters, and he draws Stan away with him. He sits behind Stan on the floor, his legs spreading around him, and watches from over Stan's shoulder as Cartman hovers over Butters, huffing with tired satisfaction.

"Yeah, that's right," Cartman says, his voice low and dangerous as he stares down at Butters, who is still hard, trying to hump himself up against Cartman. "Now whoever fucks you next only gets the loosened up, come-soaked version." Cartman is still inside Butters as he says so, as if he's not even entirely comfortable with that scenario. Butters definitely means more to him than something hot and tight that fits around his dick, and Kenny wonders if Cartman will actually kiss him in front of them. He clearly wants to, his mouth hovering over Butters' swollen lips.

Kenny looks at Kyle. He's ignoring Cartman and Butters, giving Kenny a death stare as he rubs his hands over Stan's chest, slowly inching up toward his nipples.

"You want to try it?" Kenny asks, looking at Kyle.

"Nobody's touching my ass," Kyle says.

"No, I meant the nipple licking. You could come lick these for Stan, make him feel good." He brings his thumbs up to Stan's nipples as he says so, and Stan exhales, his eyes falling shut and his muscles getting loose. Kenny supports Stan's weight as he sinks into the feeling of having his nipples played with, his legs spreading and resting against Kenny's.

"Yeah," Stan says, cracking his eyes open. He extends one hand toward Kyle. "C'mere, dude."

Kyle whines but obeys, giving Cartman and Butters a wide berth as he walks around them. They're kissing now, Butters making needy little noises as he rubs his cock on Cartman's belly, his legs wrapped as far around Cartman's massive back as they can go. Kyle stands in front of Kenny and Stan, unbuttoning his jacket. He shrugs it off, folds it and places it by the wall. Kenny can see sweat gleaming on his upper lip. 

"Take the rest of your clothes off, Kyle," Kenny says. "There's no secrets between us."

"No," Kyle says.

"Just your pants?" Stan says, and Kenny loves him for that. "'Cause your dick looks pretty hard, man. I know it's uncomfortable."

"Stan," Kyle says, whispering. Again, he whines but obeys, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them down. He leaves his socks on. His face is still crimson, and he's still standing there like he's waiting for permission. Stan lifts his arms, and that's all the permission Kyle needs. He drops down to his knees, scooting forward until he's between Stan's legs, his face hovering over Stan's. Kenny never thought he'd be this close to their first kiss, just inches away. He's holding his breath, afraid to move.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Stan says. He brushes Kyle's cheek with the backs of his fingers, and Kyle's eyes slide shut, his breath coming out in a choppy push. 

"I don't want to die," Kyle says, whispering so that only Stan and Kenny will hear. "But if I'm going to. Ah. I have to know." 

Kyle moves into the kiss cautiously, his lips making the tiniest sound against Stan's, moist but not quite wet. Kenny feels Stan's sigh like it's moving through his own body, and he remembers to breathe as the clicking sound of their kiss gets wetter, Kyle's tongue sneaking out to brush Stan's lip. Stan sighs and licks at Kyle's tongue. Kyle gasps, his eyes coming open when Stan's tongue makes contact with his. He looks at Stan, then at Kenny. 

"Let me have him," he says, and Kenny feels struck, but he nods, passing Stan into Kyle's arms.

They go to the bed to make out and whisper. Kyle is still wearing his shirt, and Stan's hands are pushed up under it now. Cartman is asleep on the floor, lying on his stomach, and Butters is curled up with his cheek on Cartman's sweaty back, watching Stan and Kyle, a pleased little smile on his face.

This is cute and all, but it's not what Kenny had in mind.

"We need to mix things up," Kenny says. "I've got a whole list of things I've never done that I want to try, and so far I've just sucked nipples and kissed a little."

"I'll try things with you," Butters says, sitting up. Kenny eyes Stan and Kyle, but they're preoccupied for now. He'll do something about that later. 

"Come here," he says to Butters, and Butters obeys, checking over his shoulder to make sure Cartman is still asleep. He sits in Kenny's lap when Kenny pats his thigh, and giggles when Kenny takes his hand and brings it to his cock. Butters is soft now, must have come while Cartman kissed him. 

"You're awful hard," Butters says, pressing his face to Kenny's.

"Can you take another one?" Kenny asks, reaching down to feel Butters' opening, which is wet and relaxed, post-fuck, Kenny's fingers sliding in easily. Butters moans and nods.

"I want all of you," he says. "As many times as you want."

"Hear that, Kyle?" Kenny calls. "You'll ruin Butters' last wish if you don't fuck him tonight."

Kyle looks up from Stan's ministrations, his hair a mess and his lips fat from being kissed. Stan doesn't let him get far, kissing his way down Kyle's jaw and sucking at his neck. Kenny grins when Kyle's eyes drop down to Butters' ass, where Kenny is probing him with two fingers, globs of Cartman's come for lube. 

"I'm not putting my dick in anything that's had Cartman's in it," Kyle says. "No offense, Butters."

"I could wash up," Butters says, looking sad when he turns to Kyle. "I know how to clean myself real good, I swear!"

"Fuck, c'mere," Kenny says. He pulls Butters to him and kisses him. They're still kissing when Kenny eases Butters up onto his knees and then down again, sliding him onto his cock. Butters gasps and sinks down easy, his head falling back. 

"Oh, Kenny," he says. "Oh."

"It's not as thick as Cartman's," Kenny says. He checks the bed to make sure Kyle and Stan are looking. They are, Kyle leaning up on his elbow and Stan watching from over his shoulder, looking dazed. Stan's dick is pushed out through the slit in his boxer shorts, and Kyle is holding it lovingly but inexpertly. 

"You're long," Butters says, gasping as he feels Kenny press against his deepest places. "Real long, Kenny. Feels nice." He grins and swoons forward for more kissing.

Initially, Kenny was fucking Butters to distract himself from Stan and Kyle, who deserve a moment or two alone after all of that buildup, but now that Butters is moving on him, squeezing up around him like he feels guilty for not being as tight as he was for Cartman, Kenny is rapidly becoming unaware that there's anyone else in the room. It's the kissing, somehow, that's impressing him most. Butters kisses like he wants to take care of you, almost cooing into it. At some point, Kenny's dick and his heart start humming the same tune. 

"How do you like that, Kenny, fucking him with my come for lube?"

That's Cartman, suddenly awake and looming over them. Butters stops moving and arches backward, smiling at Cartman. 

"It's pretty good," Kenny says, a little fuzzy. He checks on Stan and Kyle. Stan has his back to them, and his shoulders are tense, his legs open for Kyle's hand, which is moving faster now.

"You like that?" Cartman asks, flattening his hand on top of Butters' head. "A white trash dick up your ass?"

"Don't be mean, Eric," Butters says. He's watching Cartman's face, waiting to be told what to do. Across the room, Stan is making frightened little noises, as if he's afraid of how hard he's going to come. 

"No, that's fine, that's good," Cartman says. He gets down onto his knees behind Butters, huffing. "Go ahead," Cartman says, his hands sliding onto Butters' small shoulders. "Keep riding him."

Butters tries to, skinny thighs trembling with the effort, but Cartman holds him down. He smiles when Kenny looks up at him, and at first Kenny thinks there might be something evil in it, but he's seen evil things and has never really bought Cartman's efforts to be one of them. He smiles back, because it's a game, Butters moaning with frustration when Cartman won't let him fuck himself on Kenny's cock, clenching around him in the process.

"Go on, Butters," Cartman says, as if he can't understand why Butters isn't riding Kenny hard. "Give that hungry asshole what it wants. Make him come."

Butters whines and tries, gasping when Cartman eases his grip enough to let him rise up and slam back down onto Kenny just once, and Butters looks like he'll cry when Cartman holds him in place again.

"Be nice, Eric," Kenny says, though he doesn't really mind this, because Butters' frustrated squirming feels pretty fucking amazing, and the friction is muted just enough to keep him from coming. 

"K-Kyle, ah," Stan says from across the room, on his back now, every muscle tensed, his spine arching as the pressure builds. Kyle is pumping him, panting, staring at his face.

"C'mon," Kyle whispers, his mouth on Stan's cheek, and Stan breaks. He cries out as if he's never felt this before, and maybe he hasn't, because it is different, the first time someone who matters does it. Kenny expects Kyle to swoop in and kiss him while he's coming down, because Stan looks so wrecked, shivery and open-mouthed, but Kyle is frozen as if he doesn't know how to live in a world where he just saw that. Kenny grins, because he was wrong - it isn't Stan's mouth that's going to turn Kyle into a sex maniac, it's the sight of him like this, weakened from how Kyle touched him. Kyle looks even more blown apart than Stan does. Cartman is distracted by the spectacle, too, staring, and Butters uses this as his opportunity to bounce on Kenny, groaning with relief when Kenny shoves up into him and comes. 

For awhile everyone but Cartman is preoccupied, Kenny kissing Butters' neck and letting him continue to hump himself weakly on Kenny's spent and oversensitive cock, Stan and Kyle kissing and whispering on the other side of the room. Cartman stands up with a groan. 

"Alright," he says. "I have a proposal." 

"Oh, Jesus," Kyle says, looking up from Stan's mouth to glare at him. Stan is still partly in outer space, nuzzling shamelessly at Kyle's jaw when he's distracted.

"I refuse to go to my grave without having the real Kyle suck my balls," Cartman says. He points his fat finger at Kyle. "Because a bet's a bet and you lost!"

"I did not and you know it! That was a technicality! That was-"

"Here's my proposal, Kahl!" Cartman groans. "I can't believe I'm offering this, but I'm gonna die anyway so fuck it. I will suck your balls if you suck mine."

Stan bursts into giddy laughter, and Kyle glares at him, his face getting red again. 

"I don't want your mouth on any part of me, Cartman," Kyle says.

"Dude, lighten up," Stan says, rolling onto his back. Kyle boggles at him. "What?" Stan says. "Cartman just offered to suck your balls, because the world is ending and this is what's important to him. It's funny."

"It's not funny! Stan! It's probably just a trick."

"It's not a trick," Butters says. He pulls off of Kenny's cock and moans, standing on wobbly legs, his dick pointed at Kenny's mouth. "Eric has been obsessed with this for a long time, Kyle. And I'll tell you this, too, buddy - he's real good at sucking on balls."

"Why thank you, Butters," Cartman says, looking pleased with himself. 

"Why is everyone against me?" Kyle shouts. Kenny snorts and licks the tip of Butters' cock, watching his eyelids lower. 

"No one is against you, dude," Stan says, hugging Kyle to him. "And for the record, I'll suck your balls, too, if you want." 

"Stan," Kyle says, moaning and hiding his face on Stan's neck.

"Hey, no fair!" Cartman says. "I offered first! I call dibs on Kyle's balls! And on getting my balls sucked by him! You guys, seriously!" 

"Here's an idea," Kenny says. "We could all suck Cartman's balls, as a group. And Kyle's, too. I think that's fair." 

"You are insane!" Kyle says in a muffled shout.

"Let's give him a preview, Cartman," Kenny says. "Me and you can suck Butters' balls, so Kyle can see what he's missing."

"This is like a fucking hostage negotiation," Stan says, laughing again. He kisses the top of Kyle's head as if to apologize for that observation.

"Alright, a preview," Cartman says. "Butters, lean against the wall. Kenny, up on your knees. Let's do this."

Butters lifts his dick and holds it out of the way while they lap and suck at his balls, which is hottest part of the whole thing for Kenny, the way Butters is just holding himself, his thumb twitching but his fingers otherwise staying still, because no one has given him permission to jerk his dick. He comes without needing to, while Cartman rolls one of his balls around on his tongue and Kenny nips lightly at the other one, still marveling at the fact that they're completely hairless, as if Cartman paid to get laser hair removal surgery for Butters. Kenny wouldn't be surprised, though he supposes he also might just make Butters shave; his legs are hairless, too. 

"So which of us was better?" Cartman asks as Butters drops down to the floor, his legs transformed into jelly. He's so come-drenched, with his own and with Cartman's and Kenny's, which is running down his legs now. Kenny cradles him, and Cartman shakes Butters' knee, wanting an answer. 

"Ah - ah, I don't know," Butters says. "It was real good having two at once, though. Four at once would be, oh geez. I think someone might faint if they had that many mouths on them."

Kenny snorts, wondering if Cartman and Butters rehearsed this as part of their plan to seduce Kyle. Stan is sitting up now, Kyle draped onto him and watching Butters curiously. 

"What do you say, Kyle?" Kenny asks. "You want all of us to lick you at once? We could do it everywhere, you know, not just on your balls. Cartman could suck your balls, and Butters could suck on your dick, and me and Stan could lick you all over your chest and suck on your nipples, how does that sound?"

"Fuck," Kyle says, and he's got that look again, like the one he had on his face when he watched Stan come. Stan gives him a friendly shake. 

"That sounds awesome, dude," he says. "I mean, if you want it. I think we'd all love to do that for you. Then you'd feel it, like, how nobody here is against you." 

"Stan," Kyle says, and they kiss, softly. It's like a conversation they're having, Stan reassuring Kyle with little swipes of his tongue, Kyle showing Stan how wet his mouth has gotten at the idea of being worked on like that, by all of them. The conversation continues when they pull back to look at each other, and Kenny can see it in Kyle's eyes, the moment when he decides that he wants this and lets Stan grant him permission to have it. 

"Let's do it on the bed," Stan says. "Lie down, okay?"

"I just want to note on the record here that me doing this means Kyle agrees to do it to me," Cartman says, and Kenny kicks him on the way to the bed, afraid he'll spoil the tenuous magic.

"We'll see what happens," Stan says before Kyle can protest. "For now, you guys, look how hard he is." Stan cups his hand around Kyle's tented boxer shorts, stretching out alongside him as he settles down onto his back. Kyle looks irritable but surrendered, his arms at his sides. "Poor Kyle. Let's help him."

"Just take his damn boxers off," Cartman says. He sits on the end of the bed, and Butters does, too, looking excited as Cartman takes one of Kyle's ankles and pulls his legs apart more widely. Kenny is so excited about this that he's pretty sure the top of his head is going to blow off before he can actually get his mouth on Kyle, but that's okay. He's had worse deaths.

"I - I don't know if I should be naked," Kyle says, like he's worried about the repercussions for the environment or something. 

"Dude, it's us," Stan says. He scoots out of his own boxers, and Kenny smirks, because he's hard again, very. They all are. "That's the whole point of this thing. I get it now. Kenny made it sound like it would just be about sex, but it's more than that. We belong to each other, right? We grew up together, and tomorrow we're probably gonna die together. Clothes are pointless." 

Kenny is impressed with that speech, and it makes him wonder for the first time if Stan really believes Trent is going to kill them, or if he has a plan, like Kenny does, to sacrifice himself before Trent can touch any of the others. Kenny will tie Stan up and stow him somewhere safe if he has to.

"I'm gonna take these off now," Kenny says, putting his hands on the waistband of Kyle's boxer shorts. Kyle sighs and sits up a little to pull off his shirt. He lifts his ass so that Kenny can get his boxers off. 

Kenny throws the boxers onto the floor along with Stan's and turns back to Kyle, who is pulling Stan's arm around himself so that he'll have some form of shelter. He's blushing, but he doesn't look scared, not even mortified. He's letting Cartman hold on to his ankle. Kenny takes hold of the other one, easing his legs open again. 

"Fuck, you look good," Stan breathes out, saying what they're all thinking. He kisses Kyle and runs a hand down over his chest. 

"You're so scrawny," Cartman says, but it sounds like a compliment, and he's rubbing Kyle's leg, tickling him behind his knee until he flinches. 

"You're so _hard_ ," Butters says, marveling at Kyle's dick, and Kenny laughs, because it's true. Kyle's cock is bright red and standing up straight, beads of precome dripping from the slit.

"We should make this last," Kenny says. "So go slow, everybody." He smirks at Kyle. "Don't make him come too fast. Tease him." 

Kyle moans, and it sounds like an equal measure of encouragement and annoyance, which is so perfectly Kyle that Kenny wants to crawl up and kiss him. He doesn't, because that might be the one thing that's out of bounds. He gets up and steps over Kyle, wedging himself between Kyle and the wall. Stan is at his other side, his arm still hugged around Kyle's shoulders. Cartman is hoisting Kyle's left leg up onto his shoulder as he gets into position. Butters is still hanging back and enjoying the view, smiling dazedly at Kyle's cock like he can't decide if he wants to lick it or take a picture. 

Kenny starts things off, because that's clearly his role here. He licks at Kyle's nipple and feels Kyle's little sigh rolling down his spine like warm water. Kyle's nipples are just slightly bigger than Butters', more red than pink, in stark contrast to his pale skin.

"You like that?" Stan asks Kyle as Kenny sucks on his nipple, just softly.

"Uh-huh," Kyle says. He pushes his hand into Kenny's hair, and Kenny flattens his tongue to give Kyle a hard, wet lick in response. 

"Want me to do it, too?" Stan asks. 

"Yeah- oh, _fuck_." Kyle's shifts so that his legs are open as widely as possible, his right foot dangling over the side of the bed, and Kenny looks down to see Cartman flicking just the tip of his tongue over Kyle's ginger-colored ball hair.

"I knew I forgot something," Cartman says, peering up at Kyle from between his legs. "I was going to shave this ginger bitch beforehand." 

Butters groans, as if the idea of Cartman shaving Kyle's balls is too much to bear. He slides off the bed and leans down to rub the tip of his tongue through the wet slit of Kyle's cock. Stan and Kyle's moans are so unitary that Kenny laughs. 

"If I end up with pubes stuck in my throat you're a dead man," Cartman says, and he starts licking Kyle's balls properly, pausing at moments to bite the inside of his thigh or lean over to taste Kyle's pre-come on Butters' lips. Kenny tries to focus on what he's doing, moving between Kyle's nipple and his neck, hoping to leave hickeys on both spots, but he can't stop checking on what everyone else is doing to him. Stan is just rolling Kyle's other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, calming him down with deep kisses when he starts to hyperventilate and arch. 

"You okay?" Stan keeps asking, whispering. Kyle sobs and nods in answer, bucking his hips up toward Cartman and Butters' mouths. He's still got his hand in Kenny's hair, and he's pulling, and Kenny might come just from that. He licks Kyle's ear, and Kyle turns to him, panting. 

"Dude, Cartman is sucking your balls," Kenny says, whispering, like this is a secret they can keep from Cartman. Kyle laughs deliriously and they both look down. Cartman has one whole ball in his mouth, and he's watching Kyle like he's daring him to try to suck his balls this well when it's his turn.

"If I put my mouth on him for real it'll be over," Butters says, pouting and looking down at Kyle's cock longingly. "But I really want to."

"Do it, please," Kyle says, crying. "I want to come, I need to - Stan, tell him I need to come." 

He's so desperate, and Stan looks broken up in response, nodding. 

"Yeah," Stan says, stroking Kyle's face, keeping his eyes locked on Kyle's. "Go ahead, Butters. He's shaking so hard."

Kenny hopes Kyle will leave his hand in his hair, and he does, yanking it hard when he comes down Butters' throat, his whole body jerking. Kenny sees red and grabs his own dick, because he's kind of into pain and he's really fucking close. He comes discreetly, quietly, pumping it out against Kyle's thigh, his face pressed to Kyle's neck. When he opens his eyes again he sees the red marks he left on Kyle's skin and smiles, licking over them. 

"Goddamn, I want to fuck him," Cartman announces, and they all know he means Kyle. Kyle is still shuddering a little, making a sort of _mhmm_. sound at the end of each exhale. He says nothing to Cartman, just reaches down to pet Butters' hair when he rests his head on Kyle's stomach. 

"No way," Stan says, actually holding an arm over Kyle as if to protect him from the blunt object that is Cartman's lust. "He's a virgin. Don't even think about it."

"You, though," Kyle says, knocking his nose against Stan's chin. "You could. Stan, please?"

Stan is quiet, studying Kyle's eyes as if he's looking for something that's not fogged up by lust. Kenny uses the opportunity to scan Kyle's body, which is still spread open for all of them, his legs splayed and his cock softening against his belly. There's come on his chest, most of it his own, some of it Kenny's. 

"Are you sure?" Stan asks him, softly. Kyle makes a pained little sound.

"Stan, we're going to die," he says. "If he kills us, tomorrow, ah." Kyle looks down at Cartman and Butters, then at Kenny, as if he's trying to decide whether or not they should hear this. "When they bury me, I want some part of you still inside me," he says, to Stan, though Kenny gets the feeling he's talking to all of them. "So I won't have to be alone in the dark." 

Kenny shudders, because he thinks he wants that, too. He's died a lot of times, but never with their come still caked in secret corners of his body. 

"Don't talk like that," Stan says. He's stroking Kyle's face, and Kenny can see him struggling not to tell Kyle that he'll keep him safe, whatever it costs, because Kyle would never allow it, just like Stan would never allow Kenny to do what he's going to do. Kenny will have to make sure they're all someplace safe tomorrow, where they can't do anything stupid until he's dead and Trent is arrested for his murder, locked up for good. Kenny has it all planned out, and if Stan were to show up at the last minute, his careful calculations would be spoiled. It's a small thing for Kenny; he knows he'll come back. Stan knows that he wouldn't, and he's willing to do it anyway, for Kyle. Maybe for the rest of them, too. 

Kenny shows Stan how to use his fingers on Kyle so he'll be relaxed and open enough to take Stan's cock. Cartman holds Kyle's leg out of the way and watches intently, licking his lips. Butters is wrapped around Kyle's back, holding him and kissing his cheek, keeping him calm. 

"It'll hurt at first, right?" Kyle says to Butters. 

"Not really," Butters says. "It feels like getting stretched almost too much, and it's kinda scary, but you have to trust the person who's doing it, and then it just feels real good, having them in you."

"Cartman didn't hurt you?" Kyle asks, in disbelief. Cartman's eyes flick up to Kyle's, his fingers tightening on Kyle's thigh. He looks at Butters. 

"No, sir!" Butters says. He smiles and puts his lips to Kyle's ear, his eyes locked on Cartman's. "You want to know a secret? Eric is real gentle when it comes to that kind of stuff."

"Ey!" Cartman turns red, mostly across the back of his neck.

"I know you wouldn't think he'd be," Butters says. "But he always makes me feel so special, and safe, and -"

"Butters!" Cartman says, glowering. "Shut the fuck up!"

"They're just trying to talk you into letting Cartman fuck you," Stan says, sounding a little panicked, his finger going still inside Kyle. 

"I think I want everybody to," Kyle says, and Kenny knows he's clenching around Stan's finger when he says it, can feel the muscles shift in his stomach. Kenny's hand is resting there, and it's calming him into a kind of trance, feeling the pace of Kyle's breath against his palm as it quickens and slows, responding to the movements of Stan's finger while Kenny helps him find Kyle's prostate.

"Everybody?" Stan says. His voice is small, pinched. 

"Maybe not literally," Kyle says, and Kenny isn't sure if he's crushed or relieved. "But, ah. I just want everybody to stay close. We shouldn't split up again."

"So we've awakened the slut in Kyle," Cartman says, smirking, but he's moving closer to Kyle already, scooting up to lie against his side, still holding his thigh so that his leg is bent, pressed against Cartman's stomach now. Kyle gives Cartman an irritated look but doesn't shift away. He starts to say something, but then Stan moves his finger and Kyle shouts, his back bowing and his eyes slamming shut. 

"That'd be the prostate," Kenny says.

"Jesus," Stan says, looking scared, but he must touch Kyle there again, because Kyle jerks again, whimpering. 

"Doesn't that feel good?" Butters asks, whispering and kissing Kyle's ear. 

"Go ahead and moan like a whore," Cartman says, pinching Kyle's nipple, and Kyle does.

"Stan," he says, moaning Stan's name out while he teases that spot, and Stan smiles. 

"I'm here," he says. He kisses the inside of Kyle's trembling thigh. "I'm right here, dude." 

"Come here," Kyle says, reaching for him with both arms. "Please, I need you – closer, in me, okay, I'm ready, please?"

They just kiss for awhile, Stan's hand around both of their cocks, and Kenny knows Stan is nervous, and hasn't forgotten what his role is here. He dumps lube into his palm and sneaks behind Stan, sliding his hand over Stan's until he hears Stan's breath catch.

"Here you go," Kenny says, slicking Stan's cock, which is not too long or thick but more than enough to fill Kenny's hand, just right. Stan sighs and lets his head dip down to Kyle's neck while Kenny touches him. "Now," Kenny says, and he puts his hand on Stan's hip, drawing him backward. "I'll get you started."

"I can do it," Stan says, mumbling, but he's still got his head tucked to his chest – submitting, Kenny thinks, his boner throbbing – and he lets Kenny line him up. They all hold their breath while Stan slips inside, slow. Kenny watches Kyle's face. His eyes are closed, his hands on the back of Stan's neck as he pulls him steadily closer, guiding him in deeper, and Kenny realizes they're both holding their breath, too, afraid to really feel it yet. Kenny puts his hand on the small of Stan's back and lets his breath out. He feels Stan do the same, then Kyle, Cartman, and Butters, who exhales with a contented little huff. Butters is holding Kyle's sweaty curls back off his forehead, his other arm snug across Kyle's shoulders while Stan sinks in deeper, until he's close enough to arch up for a kiss. 

"There," Kyle says when Stan's balls are pressed to his ass, both of them panting against each other's mouths, trying to keep their fluttering eyes open. "Right – there. That's – uh, Stan. That's where I want to keep you, okay? Okay?"

"Okay," Stan says. "Okay, yeah." He sounds like he'll cry, so Kenny needs to lighten the mood, quick. 

"I want to kiss him, too," Kenny says, not really sure what sort of reception this will get, or if they'll even hear him. He crawls up to lie against Kyle's side, opposite from Cartman, and lets Butters slide an arm around him. Kyle turns to look at him and grins. Kenny laughs, because he looks sort of high, and it figures that this would be Kyle's drug of choice. Sex, yeah, but attention, mostly. 

"Kiss Stan first," Kyle says, and Kenny gladly obliges, not sure how Stan will receive it. He seems a little out of it at first, his mouth opening for Kenny's tongue but his own tongue sluggish and still. Kenny pulls back to check his eyes. 

"We wouldn't have done this," Stan says. "Without you." He leaves it at that, leaning down to bury his face between Kyle's neck and shoulder, apparently content to just let his cock throb inside Kyle for awhile. Cartman snorts. 

"You guys are such wastes of cocks," he says. He takes Kyle's jaw and turns his face so that their eyes are locked, licks his lips. "I could make you forget your name," he says. "Just so you know. If you want a real man to screw you like you need to be screwed." 

"Shut up, fat ass," Kyle says, and then he kisses Cartman, closing his eyes as he leans into it, shocking the breath out of Kenny. Butters giggles like he saw that coming. Stan lifts his head and leans back a little to watch. When Kyle pulls free Cartman is speechless, his lips working feebly. Kyle grins. 

"He tastes like Cheesy Poofs and maple syrup," Kyle says to Stan. "Check it out." 

Stan snorts, but he kisses Cartman, too, just chastely. This seems to cure Cartman of his shock, and he glares at each of them in turn. 

"So is Kyle going to get fucked or what?" he asks. Stan sits back further, dragging his nails over Kyle's chest as he does. 

"Yeah," Kyle says, grinning at Stan. "He is. Go ahead, dude. You feel so fucking good. Doesn't hurt at all." 

Kenny opens his mouth on Kyle's neck as they both watch Stan's hips twitch into his first real thrust, heat creeping higher on Stan's cheeks as his eyelids lower. Butters is playing with Kenny's hair, making him shiver when his fingers tickle along his hairline at the back of his neck. Cartman is staring at Kyle like he's waiting to be kissed again, tweeking his nipple in the meantime. 

"Is that good?" Stan asks Kyle, his voice trembling, and Kenny loves him almost too much to stand it, but Kyle loves him that way, too, Kenny can feel it, and together they can bear the weight of it. Kyle nods and puts his hand out for Stan to hold. He draws Stan down toward him, and Butters hoists Kyle's shoulders a little, so they can kiss properly. Stan's hips are still moving, his hands snug over Kyle's ribs, and he's starting to moan just a little, his eyebrows pinching and relaxing with every thrust. Stan loses the ability to focus on kissing and starts snapping his hips harder, gasping Kyle's name, his eyes falling shut. Cartman takes opportunity to grab Kyle's face and kiss him again, and Kenny is jealous, wants to know the taste of Kyle's little pink tongue, even if it's tainted by Cartman's Cheesy Poof breath. He puts his fingers on Kyle's jaw and turns him gently, Cartman's mouth sliding down to Kyle's ear. Kenny hesitates when his nose bumps against Kyle's, and it's Butters who laughs and presses them together like they're his dolls. Kenny closes his eyes when Kyle does, when they sigh into each other it's like Kenny has Stan inside him, too, and like he's inside Kyle, like all of them are. 

"Butters," Kyle says, moaning, and Kenny laughs. Cartman grunts and shifts Kyle so that he's half-resting on Cartman's chest, angling him so he can kiss Butters, too. Kyle and Butters look sweet together, better than Kenny's fantasies about the two of them ever were, cupping each other's faces while they kiss. Stan whines and Kyle pulls free from Butters' mouth, deflecting Cartman's attempt to recapture him by offering his cheek, which Cartman bites at, growling a little. Kyle ignores him and grabs Stan's face with both hands, moaning into his mouth when they kiss. Kenny lets them lap at each other for a few seconds before swooping in to kiss both of them, his tongue slipping against Kyle's and then Stan's. 

"I'm gonna come," Stan says, panting, his teeth grazing Kenny's lip. He looks at Kenny as if to ask for permission, and that is never going to get old. Kenny nods and reaches down to wrap his hand around his cock, grinning when Stan does, too, his hand sliding over Kenny's. 

"Do it," Kyle says, flopping back against Butters again. "Fill me." 

"Yeah, c'mon," Cartman says. He pushes down on Kyle's shoulder, pinning him. "Fuck this bitch hard. He wants it. Don't you?" he asks, lifting Kyle's leg a little higher, angling him so Stan can slide in that much deeper. 

Kyle nods, whines, and lets Cartman kiss him, his hand closing into the back of Cartman's hair. Kenny puts his hand on Stan's ass and pushes him into a faster rhythm, both of them tugging on Kenny's cock, trying to kiss and just bumping their wet lips together, too much going on to properly coordinate anything as delicate as kissing. Their eyes meet like things rushing past each other in a fast moving stream, and Kenny smiles. 

"You can come," he says, just mouthing the words, but Stan hears him, and he comes, shouting and falling forward onto Kyle, who breaks away from Cartman to wrap his arms and legs around Stan, kissing his forehead. Stan is still holding onto Kenny's cock, his palm squeezing around it with every pulse of his orgasm. 

"Good, you did so good," Butters says, dragging his fingers through Stan's hair until he shivers and smiles, his eyes closed against Kyle's neck. 

"Stay in me," Kyle says. He's talking to Stan, his legs tightening around the small of Stan's back, but Kenny feels like he's asking all of them to do this. He scoots up to press himself to Kyle again, and Stan grunts in complaint when Kenny moves, still holding his cock. 

"Dude, Kyle didn't even come," Cartman says, slapping Stan's ass. "Get up so I can take care of business here." 

"No way," Kyle says, hugging Stan closer. "Let him rest. I don't need to come right away. Feels – um, it feels good just like this." He twitches his hips up just a bit, moaning under his breath. 

"Kyle," Stan moans, dazed, and he strokes Kenny's cock. Kenny tries to remain soundless, to let this be a secret side-thing, but Kyle has noticed, his eyes on Kenny and Stan's interlocked fingers. 

"Hey," Kyle says to Kenny. "Do Stan. Like you did me. I mean, like you showed him how to do me." 

"If he wants me to," Kenny says, his free hand already sliding across Stan's ass. Stan shudders and cracks his eyes open to look at Kenny. Stan's thumb is sliding up and down the underside of Kenny's cock, and it's a tease, but Kenny is pretty sure it's not intended to be, that Stan just wants to make him feel good, or maybe just doesn't want to let go of him. 

"Yeah," Stan says, and the way he flexes makes everyone stop breathing for a moment, even Cartman. "I want to try it."

"My dick or my fingers?" Kenny blurts gracelessly, and Butters hides a laugh against the side of his hand. 

"Just fingers," Stan says, his eyelashes netted, almost dark enough to hide the blue in his eyes. "For now."

Kenny is careful with Stan, maybe too careful, but Stan doesn't complain about how slowly Kenny is opening him, feeling him. Kyle is watching, enraptured, smoothing Stan's hair. Stan makes soft noises and drools on Kyle's chest, and Kenny comes when he finds Stan's prostate, because Stan shouts and pulls on Kenny's cock in confirmation – yes, that's it, that's the spot. Stan lifts his ass for more and slams back into Kyle as the electric current burns through him, that sensation snapping his body like a whip. Kyle is whimpering, shaking, and Kenny realizes he came, too, as if Kenny was touching Kyle when he rubbed Stan's prostate, because they're still so completely connected. Kenny crawls up to kiss Kyle, both of them breathing unevenly through their recovery. Kenny is still fingering Stan, still making him shout. 

"Alright, let's get this show on the road," Cartman says. He reaches down to rub Stan's balls until Stan comes again, sobbing and pushing a second orgasm into Kyle, who moans against Kenny's lips. 

"God, you're so full," Kenny says to Kyle. He reaches down to feel it as Stan slides free, Kyle's stretched open hole, all the come Stan pumped into him leaking out now. Kyle moans and flinches away shyly. Stan crawls up to wedge himself between Kyle and Cartman, which makes Kenny grin. He looks at Butters to see if he's appreciating this, too, and he smiles back at Kenny. 

"Geez, I'm thirsty," Butters says when Kyle rolls off of him, onto Stan. Butters and Kyle are both coated in sweat, Butters mostly on his chest and Kyle on his back. 

"I'll get you some water," Kenny says, leaning up to kiss Butters. 

"You know what I need?" Cartman says, pulling free of Kyle and Stan, who are kissing lazily and rubbing their legs together, arms around each other. "I need Kyle's mouth on my balls. As promised." 

"Just give them a second," Kenny says, holding up a hand. He goes to the attached bathroom for the Broncos mug that Stan always keeps beside the sink. Stan's house is quiet, his parents in Arizona for the weekend, visiting Shelly at college. Kenny fills the mug with water and returns to the bedroom, where Butters and Cartman are bracketed around Stan and Kyle, watching them kiss. Butters looks charmed and Cartman seems annoyed. Kenny hands the mug to Butters and runs his fingers through Butters' sweaty hair while he drinks. 

"So, like I said," Cartman says, bellowing. "My balls. Kyle's mouth. As we discussed."

"Oh, Jesus, fine," Kyle says. He sits up on his elbow and rubs his face, Stan still mouthing at his neck. "Present them," Kyle says to Cartman. Cartman only sputters a little, scooting back to the bed's end board and putting a pillow behind his back. He spreads his legs, and everyone stares at Cartman's intimidating erection and big, sweaty balls, except for Stan, who has sunk down to the mattress with his eyes closed, essentially passed out. Kenny decides that's probably for the best, for now. He meets Kyle's eyes and raises his eyebrows. 

"You really don't have to," Kenny says, though he knows Kyle wants to. Kyle shrugs. 

"No, I think I do," he says, and Cartman grins widely, lifting his hips a little in invitation.

"Here they are, Kahl," he says. "Freshly shaved for your convenience."

"You shave your balls?" Stan says, mumbling this against the mussed blankets, his eyes still closed. Kyle grins and leans down to kiss Stan's ear. 

"Pubes are uncomfortable for those of us with manfully high body temperatures," Cartman says.

"Eric gets real sweaty," Butters says, nodding.

"Great," Kyle says, eying Cartman's balls warily. They're heavy and meaty-looking, especially in their hairless state. Kenny actually finds them surprisingly appetizing, but he sits behind Butters and hangs back, letting Kyle and Cartman have their moment. Kyle sighs and gets up onto his knees, his hand skimming along the length of Stan's spent body as he moves toward Cartman. 

"C'mere, Butters," Cartman says, lifting up his arm. "I want to jerk you off while the Jew sucks me." 

"Kay," Butters says, beaming, and Kenny is sorry to lose the warmth of Butters' body at his side, but he's impressed with Cartman for knowing that Butters was probably feeling left out. Butters settles under Cartman's arm and kisses his neck, both of them watching Kyle as he moves closer. Kenny pulls Stan to him, and Stan moans, listless and heavy, nuzzling Kenny's chest when Kenny tucks him there.

"This needs to go on for at least five minutes," Cartman says when Kyle is on his hands and knees, frowning slightly as he contemplates Cartman's balls. Kyle is still wet with Stan's come, and Kenny almost wants to clean him up, which is weird, because he looks pretty fucking hot like this, used up and sticky. "Kenny, you time him," Cartman says. 

"Just relax and let it happen," Kenny says. Stan snorts, and when Kenny looks down at him his smile actually seems geninue, his eyes still closed. Kenny kisses him over the bridge of his nose, alarmed by how satisfying this is, just holding him while he rests, shielding him slightly from what Kyle is about to do to Cartman's balls. 

"Go ahead, Kyle," Cartman says. He's toying idly with Butters' cock, both of them watching Kyle raptly as he gets a little closer, lying down on his stomach, propped on his elbows. "My balls don't have long to live. Savor them while you can."

"Cartman," Kyle says, and it's somewhere between a scolding and something more sympathetic. He sighs and puts his hands on Cartman's lumpy thighs, sinking down closer. Kenny can't decide what he wants to see more, that first press of Kyle's tongue to those sweaty balls or Cartman's face when it happens. His eyes flick back and forth between the two, and he can see that Cartman is just as nervous as Kyle, his eyebrows arching as Butters pets his shoulder. Cartman whines when Kyle flicks the tip of his tongue over Cartman's balls, his eyes closed, thumbs twitching on Cartman's thighs.

"Yeah, Kahl," Cartman says, pumping Butters hard now, as if Butters' is a surrogate cock and Cartman is so turned on right now that he needs two of them. "That's it. Don't be shy. Flatten that tongue, bitch. Get 'em nice and wet."

"They're already wet," Kyle says, glowering up at Cartman. "How can you fucking sweat this much? I'm gonna have to clean these things off if you want me to actually suck them." 

"Clean them?" Cartman says, his hand going still on Butters and his voice coming out in a squeak. Kenny smirks, because Cartman looks like he just discovered a new and intensely arousing fetish: Kyle cleaning his privates until they're up to his specifications for sucking. Stan lifts his head from Kenny's chest and turns to look at the other end of the bed, frowning a little. 

"You want me to get you a soapy washcloth or something?" Stan asks, and Kenny has to bite his tongue hard to keep from laughing, because only Stan would come to Kyle's rescue even now. 

"Yeah," Kyle says. "And a dry one, too. Thanks." 

"Is this too sweaty for you to suck, Kahl?" Cartman asks, putting his hand around his cock. Kyle eyes it uncertainly as Stan slides off the bed and heads to the bathroom for ball cleaning supplies. 

"Dude, your dick has been in Butters' ass," Kyle says. "No way in hell am I putting my mouth on it. No offense, Butters." 

"None taken, Kyle," Butters says. He's curled against Cartman's side, humping him while he kisses his neck and shoulder. "I'll put my mouth on it, though, Eric," he says. "If you want."

"You like it when my dick tastes like your snatch, don't you?" Cartman says, almost sweetly, his fingers sliding up and down over the bumps of Butters' spine. Butters grins and writhes against him, nodding. Stan returns from the bathroom with a couple of washcloths and hands them to Kyle, who is still stretched out on his stomach between Cartman's legs, poised for action. Stan straddles Kyle's back and kneads his shoulders like he's helping Kyle prepare for a boxing match. 

"Want me to suck you now or wait until he's done cleaning you up?" Butters asks, and Kenny is pretty sure he's only asking because he knows the answer. Cartman's eyes are glued to Kyle as he brings the soapy washcloth down to Cartman's balls, wrapping it around them. Cartman sucks in his breath and looks at Butters like he can't remember what he just said.

"Um, wait a sec – ah, careful, asshole!" Cartman says to Kyle. "You – d-don't have to scrub so – so vigorouslahh, ah, fuck, yeah." 

Cartman slumps back, watching Kyle work from under hooded eyelids. Kyle seems contented by this task, concentrating, lifting and separating to clean every crevasse. Stan is quiet, probably thinking about this too much, so Kenny sidles up behind him, straddling Kyle's hips and snugging himself to Stan's back. Stan turns to smile at him, and Kenny runs his hands up and down over Stan's tensed thighs as they watch Kyle work. Cartman is panting, holding his cock out of the way while Kyle works, his other hand digging down into Butters' ass like he needs the heat between Butters' ass cheeks to calm him down. Butters is just moaning softly, drawing patterns on Cartman's pillowy chest with one finger.

"There," Kyle says, tossing the soapy washcloth onto the floor and using the other one to dry Cartman's balls, which are blushing pink from Kyle's attention. Kenny can smell the soap, and he's still trying not to laugh, mostly because of the pleased expression on Kyle's face as he finishes cleaning Cartman, as if he's just reversed an oil spill or something. 

"Now," Cartman says, and he's about to burst, Kenny can hear it in his voice. "Now you suck them, Kyle, goddammit – Jesus – suck those fucking balls." 

"Shh, I'm doing it," Kyle says, lowering himself down again. Stan's hands have gone still on Kyle's shoulders. Kenny peeks over Stan's shoulder to see if he's hard again, and he's about halfway there, so Kenny puts a hand around him. He expects Stan to flinch or grunt, but Stan sighs and spills back onto him, the tension draining from him as Kenny strokes him, both of them watching Kyle take timid little tastes of Cartman's balls, flicking his tongue across them. 

"That's licking, not sucking," Cartman says. He's sweating, fidgeting, really digging into Butters' ass now. Butters is squeaking and pressing back for more, two fingers in his mouth. Kyle opens his mouth wider, his eyes sinking shut as he tries to fit his lips around one of Cartman's balls. Cartman groans and lifts his hips, making Kyle grunt with annoyance.

"Don't smack me in the face with them," Kyle says.

"I'll put my balls wherever I want," Cartman says, starting to lose it, his giant body trembling. "Buh-Butters, okay, when I come, and, uh, I'm about to come, I want you to drink it, okay, drink it all up, don't let Kyle have any."

"Yes, sir," Butters says breathlessly, moaning and slinging one skinny leg across Cartman's belly, humping him desperately now. 

"I don't want any!" Kyle says. "And you'd better not get any in my hair!"

"Shut up, Kahl, and suck those balls! That Jew fro would be lucky to have my come in it!"

"You know what?" Kyle says, and for a moment Kenny is afraid that Cartman has spoiled this miracle for himself. Kenny's hand goes still on Stan's cock, and Stan swallows heavily, reaching back to brace his hands on Kenny's thighs. Kenny realizes belatedly that his cock is pressed to the crack of Stan's ass, and that this might be why Stan keeps pushing back against him. 

"What, Kyle, what?" Cartman asks, and suddenly he looks like he'll start crying with rage. 

"Just shut the fuck up and brace yourself," Kyle says. He gives Cartman a devious look and lowers his head again. Cartman and Butters both go still, watching as Kyle opens as widely as he can, rubs his tongue wetly on Cartman's balls, and then sucks, lewdly and without shame, making a loud suctioning noise. Kenny watches the color rise in Cartman's cheeks, pretty sure that the fact that he's gone completely quiet means he's going to come, but he doesn't actually unload until Kyle makes a low _mhmm_ sound. Cartman moans and jellifies, trembling all over, as if he's been plugged into a low frequency electrical current. Butters takes his cue and leans down to catch what he can in his mouth, licking up the rest, not sparing a drop for Kyle, who doesn't seem to care. Kyle sits up, Kenny and Stan sliding back off of him, and leans into Stan's arms when they close around him. 

"Come here," Cartman says, pulling Butters up to him, panting. "Let me taste that." He kisses Butters, moaning and peeking at Kyle. "Yeah, that's good. That's the taste of fucking victory."

"Oh, whatever," Kyle says. "That was my victory. You totally lost your shit in less than two minutes. I barely had to do any work." He holds his hand back and Stan slaps it, snickering.

"I could make you come faster, Kyle!" Cartman says, pointing a finger at him. Butters is mounting Cartman, licking his cheek. 

"Somebody should fuck Butters," Kenny says. "I already had my turn, and Cartman just came. Kyle? Stan?"

"Butters should pick," Kyle says. 

"So you're actually willing now?" Kenny says, not surprised. "You're in the running?"

"I want to try it on somebody," Kyle says.

"Me," Stan says, squeezing him. "You should try it on me."

"I think I want Stan," Butters says shyly, still clutching at Cartman, who has his arm curled around Butters' girlish waist. "But only if I wear – the outfit."

"Yeah, put that on," Cartman says. He slaps Butters' ass. "You brought the wig and everything, right?"

"The wig?" Stan says. Butters nods, smiling.

"You like fucking chicks, right?" Cartman says, throwing his hand out. Butters has already scampered off the bed, over to the bag that he brought. Stan snorts.

"I don't know," he says. "I'd never been in anyone before Kyle."

"You hadn't?" Kyle says, turning. 

"Nuh-uh." Stan sighs and presses back against Kenny. Kenny isn't sure what that means, but he wraps his arms around both of them, squeezing them to him. 

"I'll just go into the bathroom to change!" Butters says, skipping there, bag in hand. Cartman sighs contentedly and folds his arms behind his head.

"Hey, Kahl," he says.

"What?"

Cartman smirks. "You totally sucked my balls. Heh. It was killer."

"Thank you, Cartman," Kyle says, batting his eyelashes. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it."

"Goddammit, Kahl! Don't ruin this for me!" 

Stan and Kyle both laugh, and Kenny does, too, tackling them down to the mattress. For a blissful moment they're a disorganized, aimless pile of limbs and warm skin, and Kenny even likes it when Cartman looms over them, his hand skimming over their shoulders like he's trying to pick a lobster from a restaurant tank.

"I'm seriously though, Kyle," Cartman says, though his hand is resting on Stan's shoulder. "I could make you come in record time. No doubt."

"No doubt," Kyle says, mimicking Cartman's voice. He laughs, and Stan does, too, but it sounds a little forced, or worried. Kenny shifts his hips, dragging his cock along the crack of Stan's ass, and he smiles against the back of Stan's neck when he gasps.

The bathroom door opens, and Cartman looks first, then Kenny, Stan, and finally Kyle, who lifts his head sleepily. Butters is standing in the doorway, hesitating shyly, his knees pressed together. He's wearing a little white nightie, a long, blond wig with green hair bows, and pink slippers with bunny ears.

"Holy -" Stan says.

"Fuck," Kenny finishes for him.

"Marjorine?" Kyle says, and it's like he's asking if he's remembering the name right, as if any of them could have forgotten. Marjorine's short time in South Park impacted a lot of the boys in their class in a big way, or maybe Kenny is just projecting. He beat off to the thought of Butters in this outfit for a long time, during his most formative years. Now, looking at him, remembering how hot he looked as a girl, he's not sure why he ever stopped. 

"Shit, yeah," Cartman says, sounding proud. He holds out his hand. "C'mere, Butters. Come show my friends a good time." 

"Cartman!" Kyle says, kicking him.

"What?" Cartman glowers at him. "That's his dream come true, asshole!"

"It kinda is," Butters says, walking to the bed slowly, on tip toes. Kenny is throbbing again, rubbing himself on Stan almost unintentionally. Stan whines under his breath and presses back, but his eyes are locked on Butters, who looks so delicate in this getup, so small. 

"What's your dream come true?" Kenny asks, because he needs to hear Butters say it. 

"Um," Butters says. He clambers onto the bed and hurries into Cartman's arms, burrowing against his bulk. "To, um, have Eric tell me what to do to you guys. What to let you do." 

"That's right," Cartman says, throaty and corny but somehow still hot, maybe just because of the way he looks with Butters pressed against him, the effect amplified by a hundred with Butters wearing these clothes, such a fragile little thing in the arms of someone so reckless. Kenny used to get upset, thinking about it, before he realized that they both get off on it for the same reason that it disturbed him, because it shouldn't work this well. Kenny had to make himself remember Cartman's tea parties, when Cartman was actually, secretly gentle, even if he was feeding his dolls a script about how great he was. 

"So what should I do?" Butters asks Cartman, arching like a girl, the curve of his spine obscenely pretty, accented by the delicate, almost translucent fabric of the nightie. 

"Go suck Stan's dick," Cartman says. "Show them how it's done."

Butters bites his lip, kisses Cartman once, and crawls forward to do as he asked. Kenny and Kyle sort of pull Stan open for him, looking at each other in surprise when they have, because neither of them intended to do that. Stan doesn't fight it, just breathes hard and looks down his chest as Butters pins his hips to the mattress. 

"You can fuck my mouth if you want," Butters says, sweetly, and he sets to work without hesitation, circling the tip of Stan's cock just once before swallowing him up. Stan moans and bucks, definitely without meaning to, but Butters takes it well, guiding his hips back down to the bed. Kenny's mouth hangs open as he watches Butters moan and drool just for the chance to suck a dick, and he realizes he wants this, too. He wants to be used, fucked, bossed around. 

"Well, Stan?" Cartman says, rubbing Butters' ass idly while he works, as if to praise him. "Pretty good, huh? Better than Kyle's sandy vagina?"

"Fuck off," Kyle mutters unenthusiastically. He's watching Stan's face, rubbing his chest while he writhes and moans, fucking Butters' mouth in gentlemanly little twitches of his hips now.

"Kyle," Stan moans, knocking his forehead against Kyle's.

"Yeah, dude?"

"Kiss me a little," Stan says, sounding very young, reminding Kenny where he is and why this is happening, what's at stake. He watches them kiss, tugging on one of Butters' pigtails until he comes up for air. 

"Don't make him come yet," Kenny says when Butters looks up at him curiously, licking his lips, his pigtail still clutched Kenny's hand. "You should ride him, like you rode me."

"Yeah, that sounds nice," Butters says. He slumps back against Cartman, who is watching Stan and Kyle kiss, surely plotting something. 

"Damn, dude," Kenny says, running the tip of one finger up the length of Stan's cock, which is still wet from Butters' mouth. Stan gasps and pulls free from Kyle, turning to give Kenny a bleary look. "You're so hard," Kenny says. "Do you want to, um. Do you want to last?"

"I don't know," Stan says, his voice breaking. He nods. "Yeah, I do." 

"'Cause I have this thing."

"Kenny," Kyle says, a protective hand sliding across Stan's chest. 

"Sweet, you brought accessories?" Cartman says, grinning. "What are we talking here, a cock ring? Can I put one on Kyle, too?"

"Why would you ask Kenny that and not me?" Kyle asks, glaring at Cartman. "And I thought you said you could make me, um. In record time. How are you going to prove that if I'm wearing - something?"

They all stare at Kyle for a moment, aghast. Butters breaks the awkward silence by grabbing for the lube, humming to himself as he slicks Stan. 

"So anyway," Kenny says, allowing Kyle to continue frowning questioningly at Cartman, who is again speechless. "Do you want to try this ring?" he asks, rubbing Stan's stomach. "It hurts a little, but, I mean. Personally I like it when stuff hurts a little." He gets the feeling that Stan would, too, is what he's trying to say. Stan stares at him for a moment, and Kenny almost feels guilty, because he's so overwhelmed, all flushed and breathless, his cock slicked but otherwise unattended. 

"You'd better not hurt him," Kyle says, clutching Stan's shoulder.

"No, it's okay," Stan says. He's still got his eyes locked on Kenny's. "I mean, if it hurts too bad, I'll just take it off. Right?"

"Right," Kenny says. He kisses Stan's forehead and slides off the bed. "I'll just get that for you, then." His own cock is aching as he walks across the room, but he doesn't mind, sort of likes that feeling, and he doesn't want to come until Stan is inside him and fucking him with brutal desperation, which is the whole point of the cock ring. 

"Well, alright, Kahl," Cartman says when Kenny returns to the bed, everyone except Cartman watching as Kenny fits the ring onto Stan, his cock blushing a darker red once it's locked in place. "Let's make this little wager worthwhile. I bet I could make you come just from getting fucked." 

"Hmm," Kyle says, pretending to consider this. "What was Butters saying earlier, something about how you have to trust somebody in order to enjoy that? Yeah, I'm gonna go with 'hell no.'"

"Oh, Jesus, Kyle just let him do it," Stan says, panting and staring down at Butters as he lowers himself onto Stan's cock. "I mean - ah, Butters, fuck - I - I mean, if you want him to. And it's okay if you do." He looks at Kyle and smiles shakily. "It's okay, dude, really. I know you trust him, I mean, ah - enough not to hurt you. We all trust each other. That's the whole point." 

Stan sits up and wraps Butters into his arms, hugging him against his chest. He takes one of Butters' pig tails and brings it to his lips, kissing the end of it. Butters smiles and moans happily, pressing his face to Stan's. 

"How does he feel?" Kyle asks jealously, already moving closer to Cartman, who is watching Kyle with a predatory smile, pretty obviously trying to contain triumphant laughter. 

"Really good," Stan says. He closes his eyes and buries his face against Butters' nightie, where his tits would be if he had them. Kenny isn't sure if he's just trying to give Kyle some leeway or if he's actually appreciating this, but he's touching Butters with the appropriate amount of reverence, his hands sliding up under the nightie and across Butters' back. 

"You like that ring?" Kenny asks, his fingers dancing down over Stan's spine.

"Uh-huh," Stan says. He has his eyes closed now, and Butters is moving on him slowly, letting him get used to the feeling. "Makes everything, unh, yeah. Really fucking intense." 

Kyle is outright scowling now, and when he grabs the lube Cartman actually rubs his hands together with delight. 

"Get on your hands and knees," Cartman says, grabbing a handful of Kyle's hair and tipping his head back, grinning down into his face. Kyle narrows his eyes.

"You're so full of shit," he says. "If you can't make me come in three minutes, then - then I'm switching over to Kenny." 

"Bitch, whatever," Cartman says. He lets go of Kyle's hair and begins arranging him into position, pointing him toward the headboard. "Just hold on to something, 'cause the train's about to pull the fuck in." 

"Holy shit, Cartman," Stan says, laughing. He looks over and watches as Kyle does as Cartman asked, putting both hands around the headboard and presenting himself, Stan's come still slicked on the insides of his thighs. Kyle is trembling a little as Cartman lines himself up, his palm squeaking as he rubs the lube over his dick, and Kenny is going to pet the small of Kyle's back to calm him down, but Stan beats him to it. 

"Lucky for you I just unloaded," Cartman says, rubbing his thumb over Kyle's hole. Kyle is clenching with every swipe of Cartman's thumb, his knees spreading a little. "So I should last long enough to make you come at least twice, no cock ring necessary. Not that they make one big enough for my dick." Cartman is smirking, gloating, but he's also stalling. He's probably wanted this longer and more than any amount of ball sucking.

"Don't worry, Kyle," Butters says, riding Stan a little harder as Cartman gets closer to penetrating Kyle. "He's - _ohh_. He's real good at this." 

"I'm not worried," Kyle says. He's blushing when he turns to look back over his shoulder. "Hurry up." 

"Bitch is begging for it," Cartman says, teasing his cockhead over Kyle's hole. "Even after getting dick from Mr. Quarterback." 

"Cartman, can you be gracious for like five seconds?" Kenny says. "Everybody's giving you a lot of credit here."

"Oh, I'll be gracious," Cartman says, still just circling Kyle's opening, watching him tremble and arch. "I'll fuck you next, Kenny, and Stan, too."

"Nuh, I want Kyle to do me," Stan says. "Before anyone else." His head is tipping back as he starts to lose his focus, Butters riding him harder. Without that ring he would have blown by now, and Kenny knows he's feeling it, that ache in his balls, the impossible swelling in his dick. 

"And I want Stan to do me first," Kenny says, smiling when this manages to capture Stan's attention, his eyes slitting open when he looks over at Kenny.

"Yeah," Stan says, moaning, nodding. "God, I'm gonna come so hard. Oh, fuck, this thing - it's so - _Kenny_." He sort of whimpers Kenny's name out, and maybe it's unfair to Butters, but Butters is losing his focus, too, jerking himself with the end of the nightie wrapped around his dick. 

"You need it off?" Kenny asks, moving closer to Stan, wrapping an arm around him. Stan sobs and shakes his head.

"Not yet," he says. "Not until I'm in you. Wanna - put this in you, Kenny, God, I need, need to come so bad, ah, _Kenny_ -" 

"Shh, okay, help me with this first." Kenny finds Stan's hand and wraps it around Butters' cock. On the other side of the bed, Kyle sucks in his breath, and they all go still, looking over to watch Cartman start to sink into him. 

"That's a good little slut, open up for me, yeah," Cartman says. He's stroking Kyle's back, going slow, like they all knew he would. Savoring it, but his hands are shaking a little, Kenny can see it. Stan moans as he watches Cartman sink into Kyle, who has gone quiet, his hands tight around the headboard and his head hanging between his arms.

"Tell me you're okay," Stan says, panting. "Kyle?"

"I'm okay," Kyle says. He lifts his head and peeks at Stan from over his shoulder. "Fuck - Cuh- Cartman." His eyes flutter shut again as Cartman sinks a bit more, one hand gripping Kyle's hip, the other one still stroking him like he's a well behaved pet. 

"That's right, Kahl," Cartman says. "Say my fucking name." His voice is beleaguered only by the slightest shake; he seems calmer than Kenny has ever seen him, watching himself disappear into Kyle's softened, welcoming body. 

"Jesus Christ," Kyle says, and he drops down to the mattress, his shaking arms failing him. He huddles against the blankets, ass still lifted, and he whimpers as Cartman's balls come to rest against his haunches. 

"Goddamn, Kahl," Cartman says. He reaches down to tug Kyle's thighs apart more widely, and Kyle whines, whatever tension was left in his shoulders draining out of him. He's limp in Cartman's grip, eyes closed, ass open. Trusting. 

"Oh," Butters says softly, and he's touching himself again, moving Stan's hand on him, the end of the nightie still twisted around his dick. Kenny tucks himself around Butters back and reaches down to feel the cock ring, rubbing his thumb around Butters' tender entrance in the meantime. Butters sort of whinnies, kneels up and slams himself back down onto Stan, both of them shouting as Butters sprays Stan's chest with come. 

"Good girl," Stan praises, pushing his hands up under the nightie, one in front and one in back, and when they kiss Cartman actually turns to watch. Butters is sighing and soft against Stan, his arms looped around Stan's neck. Cartman turns back to Kyle, his mouth twitching into something between a grimace and a grin. He's arranging himself, both hands on Kyle's hips now, looking for something. When he finds it, Kyle gasps, and Cartman smiles. 

"I told you to hold on to something, Jew," Cartman says. "Better grab those blankets. You ready for this?"

"Fuck me, yeah," Kyle says, wiggling under Cartman, pressing back. "Right - right there. Please, Cartman." 

It changes the weight of the air, the way he says those last two words, and Cartman growls with pleasure, pulling back like he's about to slam the hammer down on one of those carnival games, waiting to hear the bell at the top clang. Stan and Butters have gone quiet, holding on to each other. Kenny puts his chin on Butters' shoulder and toys with the lace strap that's fallen down around his arm.

"Ask me again," Cartman says, almost all the way out now, the tip of his cock holding Kyle open. "C'mon, Kahl. Beg harder."

"Please," Kyle says, his hands curling around the blankets. "Please, _please_ , Cartman, I want it, ah, God, I want it-"

Kenny thinks of when they were kids, how Cartman used to get so much pleasure out of bringing Kyle to this point and then withholding whatever he wanted, running off with it, laughing. Cartman is quiet now, concentrating, watching Kyle shudder and fall apart. 

"Yeah," Cartman says, low and breathy, his eyes dark. He reaches up to hold the back of Kyle's neck. "Yeah, Kyle," he says, like Kyle has earned something from him, and then he gives him a hard thrust, grunting. Kyle screams and nods, snapping his hips back wildly.

"Ra - right there, yeah, there -" 

"Mhmm, take it, fucking take it-"

They're both totally unleashed from then on, Kyle slamming back to meet Cartman's thrusts, and he's barely had Cartman in him for two minutes when he comes, sobbing, holding the blankets over his face. Cartman growls with satisfaction and keeps plowing him, drawing softer, higher pitched sounds from Kyle as he continues to pummel his prostate. Kyle's second orgasm spurts from him more weakly, and Kyle is liquid beneath Cartman now, except for the faintest, almost pathetic little snaps of his hips as he tries to get more of Cartman's dick in him, following it back every time Cartman pulls out. 

"Hey," Kenny says, and Stan turns toward him slowly, looking vaguely confused in an adorable way. Kenny can only guess that the insane pressure in his cock has choked away most of his thought process. "Fuck me now?" Kenny says, rubbing one finger over Stan's bottom lip. 

"But." Stan blinks and looks at Butters like he'd forgotten for a moment that Butters was there. He's pulled off of Stan's dick now, slumped against Stan's chest, and Kenny thinks they might have finally tired him out, his wig slightly crooked as he fights to keep his eyes open. "But, um. Kyle-"

"Kyle's okay. C'mon. C'mere. Put me over the side of the bed."

Kenny takes Butters from Stan, straightens his wig and settles him down on the bed, in a spot where he won't be in danger of being kicked by Cartman as he grows progressively unhinged. Cartman is pounding Kyle's ass and hissing curses, arching back to get his dick in as deeply as he can. Kyle is crying into the blankets, the last of his energy leaving him. He goes completely limp, and Kenny knows Stan won't be able to concentrate on fucking him, not yet, so he pushes Stan in their direction. 

"You might ah - want to stay back," Cartman says when Stan crawls toward Kyle. "The - there's about to be, _unh_ , a river of come flooding out of this ginger's fucked out ass." 

Stan ignores Cartman and takes Kyle's hand. Kyle cracks his eyes open, squeezes Stan's fingers and moans. 

"Want him to stop?" Stan asks, like he's ready to kick Cartman's ass. Cartman probably can't even hear him at this point, so close to coming now that his blubbery ass cheeks are trembling. Kenny spoons himself around Butters, breathing in the smell of the wig, which Butters has sprayed some kind of perfume into. Butters moans weakly and scoots back against him.

"Don't stop," Kyle says, looking at Stan but speaking to Cartman. "Don't - don't stop, just, fuhhh, come in me, and, and on my back, my ass, just, all over me, please."

Kyle must have been ready for Cartman to stop after all, because Kenny is pretty sure he knew saying that would tip Cartman over the edge. It works like a charm, and Cartman groans, staring down at his cock as he unloads into Kyle. He pulls out and pumps some onto Kyle's back, over the crack of his ass, and onto the backs of his knees, which, now that Kenny thinks about it, Cartman seems kind of oddly fixated on. Kyle is limp and lying on his stomach now, still holding Stan's hand. Kenny is afraid Stan will snatch Kyle away for more private making out, but he stays an arm length away, letting Kyle's fingers slide out of his grip when Cartman turns Kyle over and dribbles the last drops of his orgasm onto Kyle's stomach before sinking down to kiss him. Kyle loops one arm around Cartman's neck and kisses back, groping for Stan with his free hand. Stan takes Kyle's hand and kisses his fingers. Cartman kisses Kyle's mouth until he's spent, capable of nothing more than panting against Kyle's neck while Kyle strokes his hair, like Cartman is the well behaved pet now. Kyle grins at Stan.

"Still gonna fuck Kenny?" he asks. Stan nods and turns to look over his shoulder. "Oh, Jesus," Kyle says when Stan sits up, moving slowly, wincing a little. "You're still hard."

"It hurts," Stan says.

"Take it off, Kenny!" Kyle says, his hand going still in Cartman's hair. Cartman appears to be asleep on top of him, contented.

"No," Stan says when Kenny moves to do so. "No, I. I like it. Please, just." He takes a deep breath and lets it out carefully, as if he's afraid to disturb a precarious tower of pebbles that are stacked up between his ribs. "I want to know what it feels like. In you. Like this. When it hurts."

"Oh - okay," Kenny says. He looks at Kyle and realizes that he's asking for Kyle's permission. Kyle is just frowning, his hand still outstretched and open on the bed as Stan moves toward Kenny, inching his way over a little at a time. Butters sits up sleepily and stretches, tossing one of his pigtails over his shoulder.

"Hey, Kyle?" he says. He crawls over toward Kyle and Cartman, and Kenny is glad to have him go, able to focus solely on Stan, who is breathing shallowly, his cock ramrod straight, dark and full. 

"What, Butters?" Kyle says, letting Butters put his hand where Stan's had been. 

"Um, can I clean you up?" Butters asks. He arranges his nightie so that it's as neat as possible, slightly come stained and wrinkled. 

"Get Cartman off of me and you can do whatever you want," Kyle says, pushing at Cartman's shoulders.

"Want me on my back or on my stomach?" Kenny asks when Stan has made his way over to him. He kisses Stan's face, his shoulder, and eyes his cock, unable to stop staring at it, thinking about that ache, that pressure. 

"Um, on your back," Stan says. 

"Can I touch it?" Kenny asks, quietly, his hand hovering near the leaking tip. Stan whimpers and nods, spreading his legs a little. "Fuck," Kenny whispers when he feels that tightness against his fingertips, every sensation so close to the surface, making Stan gasp deep down in chest as Kenny's fingers travel over him, just softly. 

"Oh," Stan says, watching Kenny touch him. Kenny darts a look at Stan's eyes, but his gaze is fixed down on his cock, as if he can't believe it belongs to him, not while it feels like this. Kenny's fingers dip lower, ghosting across Stan's balls. They're so heavy, full to bursting, and Stan shudders, whimpering again, his shoulders raised and tense. 

"Are you gonna be able to handle it?" Kenny asks. "I'm pretty, ah. Tight, I think. I haven't had anyone in there in few years." He checks the other side of the bed: Butters is licking Cartman's come off of Kyle in kittenish swipes of his tongue, Kyle is staring at Stan, looking worried, and Cartman is watching Butters work, tucked against Kyle's side, yawning.

"I can take it," Stan says, the hardness of his voice reclaiming Kenny's attention. Kenny flicks his eyes to Stan's, watching him, waiting to see if he's revealing something here, showing his tell. Stan eases his shoulders down a little, lifts his chin. "I can take it if you can."

Kenny considers this, lowering himself down onto his elbows, his legs hanging over the side of the bed, feet resting on the floor. Stan hoists himself up into a standing position, wobbling just a little, and Kenny rakes his eyes up and down Stan's body, wondering if it's true. Would Stan be able to handle what Kenny has endured? The deaths, the family that isn't one really, the things that he's done for money, the thing he's going to do for them? Dying tomorrow will be the easy part. Living with the knowledge that Trent didn't seek him out and hunt him down, that Kenny orchestrated a run in with him and put him behind bars for good, just in case, just for these people in this room - would Stan be able to do that?

No, he wouldn't. It would destroy Stan to know that he'd ruined someone's life. Kenny will do that for him. He's strong enough, or weak enough, to do that for all of them.

"Come on, then," Kenny says, and he lifts his legs, bracing his feet on the edge of the mattress, his toes curling around it. "Get the lube," Kenny says, smirking when Stan drops down over him, already lining up. "I'm not that hardcore."

"Oh - ha - yeah." Stan isn't trying to prove himself now; he's nervous, squeaking a little when he touches his cock, slicking it very carefully. Kenny isn't sure how Stan will be able to withstand the tightness of his ass if he can't even close his fist around himself without wincing, but he can't wait to see him try. 

There's a watery moan from behind them, and Kenny arches to give Kyle and Butters an upside down appraisal. Cartman seems to have revived, and he's up on an elbow, guiding Kyle up over Butters, into a sixty-nine position. Butters is whining like a hungry puppy, the wig pushed off but the nightie still in place, and he sighs with satisfaction when he brings his mouth up to Kyle's ass to lap Cartman's come from him.

"Ah, God," Kyle says, shivering, his forehead resting against Butters' thigh.

"Don't you want to try it, too, Kahl?" Cartman asks. He puts his hand on the back of Kyle's head, not pushing, not yet. "That's your precious Stan's come in him, you know. Butters stole it from you, Kahl. You should get it back."

"Nuh - it's too - it's," Kyle says, stuttering, but he's staring at Butters' ass as Cartman presses Butters' leg down to his chest, angling him so that Kyle could lick up a generous glob of Stan's come if he wanted to. Kenny feels Stan's fingers on him and stops breathing. He tilts up to look at Stan again. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had one of himself for each of them.

"Should I stretch you first?" Stan asks. Kenny shakes his head.

"No, man," he says. "You're so close, c'mon, you need it." 

"But - you-"

"I can take it," Kenny says, letting Stan see just a flash of his tell, because he wants someone to know, even if they won't remember. "I promise. C'mon."

Stan kisses Kenny's chest, his neck, and rubs a thumb along his jaw. Stan's cock is just bumping against him, and he's hissing at the contact. Kenny thought he wanted to be thrown down and reamed, and maybe he'll get that later, from Cartman, or from Stan when he revives. For now, for this particular first time, he kind of loves that he has to guide Stan in slow, coaxing him, showing him how.

"Yeah, Kahl, that's a good boy, eat that come," Cartman murmurs. "It's all yours, isn't it? Mhmm, so yummy." Kenny peels his eyes away from Stan's pained and astonished expression to look back over his shoulder. Kyle is bright red with shame, tasting Butters' hole in timid licks, shivering along with Butters every time his tongue slides cautiously around the rim. Cartman has his fingers inside Kyle, and he's pulling his come out a little at a time, feeding it to Butters, who moans gratefully when Cartman brings his sticky fingers to Butters' lips. Watching this, Kenny clenches hard around Stan, who cries out.

"Oh, fuck," Stan says, only halfway in and already shaking. "Kenny, ah, I - I-"

"You don't have to be gentle," Kenny says. He strokes Stan's face until his eyes flutter open. "You don't have to go slow."

"God, I want to fuck you so hard," Stan says, shaking his head, starting to cry. " _Kenny_." 

"You can do it, dude, okay?" Kenny sits up to kiss Stan's face, the corners of his wet eyes. Stan is all the way in now, and Kenny's ass is burning like hell, too full, and since when did Stan get this big? It's a good burn, though, the best kind, and he would know; he's been in a lot of different fires. "Fuck me hard," Kenny says when Stan drags his eyes up to his. Behind them there's moaning, yelping, Cartman's low chuckle, but he's neither of them break their eye lock to look.

"Alright," Stan says. "Okay." He puts his hands on Kenny's chest and pushes him down to the bed. His palm is pressed right over Kenny's heartbeat, like he's going to wrap his fist around Kenny's heart and pull it out. Kenny would be okay with that. He would love that. He squeezes around Stan's cock, and the sob that it pulls out of Stan almost makes him come.

"Please, dude," Kenny says, realizing that this is the only way to push him over the edge. "I need it." 

Stan curses and lets his hands slide off of Kenny's chest, onto the mattress, braced on either side of him. He starts snapping his hips the way he did toward the end with Kyle, jerky and determined, rhythm-less. Kenny groans, because he didn't realize how much he'd missed this particular sort of friction, all the pleasure of a stab and a punch with just a hint of the pain. He lifts his legs up, holding the backs of his knees, and doing this sets Stan into some kind of growling auto pilot, a low moan rumbling in his chest as he starts to find his rhythm. His skin is slapping against Kenny's now, loud enough that Kenny knows that the others must be watching. 

"Yeah, fuck that ass," Kenny says, his teeth gritted as he watches Stan's eyes get darker and darker, his cock pistoning at full force, punishing Kenny's unprepared ass. "Make me feel it, Marsh. Make me – _ungh_ , fucking – feel it." 

Kenny throws his head back and Stan grunts in disapproval, grabbing a handful of Kenny's hair and pulling him up until he's looking at Stan again. Kenny feels like Stan wants him to see something, wants him to hear some unspoken words, and maybe Kenny could if he wasn't starting to reel into mindlessness, his panted breath coming out a little too high pitched, out of his control, building into a whine. Stan is grazing his prostate with clumsy blows, and Kenny is trying to reposition himself so that he'll hit it every time, but Stan keeps shoving him back into place. Kenny comes with a scream when Stan pins him down just when he was close to getting fucked at the perfect angle, and it's the fact that Stan wouldn't let him have it that makes him unravel into nothing for a few blissed out seconds. Coming down from it, he's sure that it was unintentional on Stan's part, because what the hell does Stan know about the intricacies of orgasm denial, but it was perfect, that was perfect. Kenny wants it to last forever, but he knows he's already waited too long, because Stan is sputtering and sort of crazed, crying out helplessly on the end of every desperate thrust.

"Hey," Kenny whispers, grabbing him, making him be still. Stan jerks in his grip and gives him a feral look that surely isn't meant to communicate anything but lust and rage. "Don't you – don't you want to take the ring off now?"

"Oh – oh – fuck," Stan says, and he sobs once, twice, his shoulders tremoring in a worrying way. "I, I forgot, I forgot I could." 

"Shh, okay, I'll do it, just be still – be still, Stan, okay?"

Stan drops down onto Kenny and cries into his chest, sniffling wetly, hiding nothing, and Kenny thinks about how he used to get when he was drunk, even when he was just a little drunk and the others couldn't see it. He locks his arm across the back of Stan's neck while he reaches down to the place where they're connected, almost afraid to release the ring when his fingers find it, as if it's a gun that will go off inside him. He pets Stan's hair, and Stan gasps in pain when Kenny tries to adjust the ring, just to see if he can even turn it. He can't; Stan has swelled to its limits, it's cutting into his skin.

"I'm gonna take it off," Kenny says, heart pounding, Stan's cheek pressed over it. "Okay? You ready?"

"Please," Stan says, soft and so weak, and the whimper that follows is Kyle's, from across the bed.

Kenny experiences a moment of bizarre but intense panic, like he won't be able to do this, won't be able to save him, but the ring is just as easy to release as it's ever been, a click and Stan is free. Stan's shout is the kind of bone-shaking thing that could only come from a person who's been torn open, and Kenny holds him while he cries through his orgasm, hoping the neighbors won't call the cops. He whispers _shh_ by instinct, not because it means anything or because he actually wants Stan to be quiet. Stan pulls out of Kenny and crawls up to hide his face against his neck, sniffling, his body still jerking with aftershocks. The others come to pull them more completely onto the bed, and it reminds Kenny of something, some movie he saw as a kid or some nature documentary that broke his jaded heart, a kind of hopeless reunion, the doomed cradling the damned. He has to remind himself of his plan as he stretches out across the bed, Stan still clutched against him. Butters is behind him, attendant, and Kyle has spooned himself up behind Stan, his face pressed to Stan's neck. Kyle is sniffling, too, like he felt every inch of that, but Kenny is pretty sure he just thinks he did. He cracks his eyes open, looking for the blue between Stan's trembling eyelashes, wanting to know that he's okay. Stan's blue is darker than Kenny's, but it's brighter, too, somehow. 

"Damn," Cartman says, breaking the solemnity of the moment. He's behind Butters, probably the only one who is still hard, which would account for his dismissal of the gravity that's settled over the room. "That was, uh. Shit."

"Are you okay?" Kyle whispers, sitting up on his elbow and running a hand down over Stan's shoulder and along his side, cupping his hip. Stan opens his eyes a little more widely and nods, scooting forward until his face is pressed to Kenny's.

"Yeah," he says. He's answering Kenny, not Kyle, and when they kiss it's like the first one Kenny has ever really had. He holds Stan's face and closes his eyes, trying to forget everything else, but when Butters licks at his ear he likes that, too, that they don't have to be alone with this. The first person he looks at when he breaks eye contact with Stan is Kyle, and Kyle is studying him like the jury is still out, but he smiles, resting his chin on Stan's shoulder. 

"You look so tired," Kyle says, and Kenny isn't sure if he's referring to him or Stan, but it doesn't really matter, because they're both shattered, exhausted. Kenny's face is still pressed to Stan's, his lips on Stan's forehead. 

"I am wide awake," Kenny says, lying. Butters laughs and settles in for what feels like sleep, still wearing the nightie. Kenny isn't ready for sleep, even if admits that it's got its claws in him, trying to pull him down deep. This night can't end. If his death is directly related to Trent's incarceration they might not remember any of this. He never knows how far back the erasing will go, just so that they won't know that he suffered. He used to resent that, and now he's glad for it, but he doesn't want them to forget this.

"Man, you guys missed the best part," Cartman says, and for once Kenny is glad for his booming voice, because it's keeping him awake. "Kyle was like a kid in a candy store over there, sucking that come out of Butters-"

"Shut up, fat ass!"

"We all saw it, Kahl! If Stan came in the middle of the street, in the gutter or something, would you get down on your hands and knees and lap that up, too?"

"Seriously, shut up," Kenny says, not appreciating Cartman comparing Butters' ass to the gutter, even if he would be less surprised if Kyle put his mouth in a gutter than in someone's ass. "Cartman, give Kyle a kiss. We all know you want to taste Stan's come, too."

"Pssh! Yeah, right! Hell no!"

"We all know you want to kiss him," Stan says, tilting his chin to glance up at Cartman, and Kenny is proud of Stan for being capable of a smirk like that, as worn down as he is. "So just do it, Cartman, and shut up."

"I don't – ah," Cartman is blubbering, made stupid by how much he wants this, and Kenny doesn't think there's anything else in the in the world that can disarm him like Kyle does. He smiles at Stan, telling him this without saying it out loud, and he can feel Stan hearing it, understanding. Stan smiles, too, and he pulls Kyle's arm across his chest, making Kyle tip toward Cartman in the process. Kyle opens his mouth and Cartman presses his lips to Kyle's before he can speak, breathing hard into Kyle when he leaves his mouth open for Cartman's tongue. Cartman is really huffing, like a fat kid running up a hill, which is what he turns into whenever Kyle gets the best of him. Kenny finds Butters' hand and pulls him closer while he listens to Kyle and Cartman kiss, watching Stan start to fall asleep for real.

"Hey," Kenny whispers. "Wait." 

"Mph," Stan says, and he's already there, gone to a place where Kenny can't follow.

Kenny figures he might as well sleep, too, telling himself that it's just a nap. It's got to be after one o'clock in the morning now, the hours already working their way into the day when they're all supposed to die. Kenny isn't interested in giving Death what it wants. He never has been, and has body has always been his only weapon. Lacking an instruction manual, he's done what he can. He sleeps fitfully, waking at moments to press against Stan or tug Butters closer, realizing at one point that the heavy hand on his shoulder is Cartman's. He doesn't mind; he's even glad. If anyone in the world is willful enough to fight off someone else's nightmares, it's Cartman, and Kenny thinks this might be the one night when Cartman would be so selfless.

When he wakes up he's fuzzy as if hungover, though he hasn't had any booze all day. Someone is shuffling, extracting himself from the pile of warmth that they've become. It's Kyle, sitting up and rubbing his hands over his face.

"Where are you going?" Kenny asks. His voice is croaky like he's getting over a cold, and when Kyle smiles at him it's real, again. Kenny can't believe it, but Kyle must know: Kenny doesn't want Stan for himself, not even a little, he just wants him close all the time, same as he wants Kyle. 

"I need a shower, dude," Kyle says, his voice not much stronger. "I'm, like. Crusty. I feel disgusting."

"But," Kenny says, eyebrows twitching. "You said. What you said, about being down in the dark, wanting us in you—"

"Hey, don't," Kyle says. He touches Stan first, then Kenny, brushing his cheek with his fingers. "I mean, don't – you're in me, no matter what. Now, and before. That was just. That was-"

"No, I know," Kenny says. He's too delirious to talk about this seriously. He sits up, pulling himself carefully from Butters' grip, then from Stan's, Cartman's hand sliding down across Butters' chest. 

"What are you doing?" Kyle asks, but he's excited, Kenny can see it in his eyes, by the glow of Stan's Broncos lamp. 

"Coming with you," Kenny says. "Uh, if that's alright."

"If that's alright?" Kyle puts out his hand. "Dude, look around. What isn't alright? And yeah, um. I don't want to be alone, so. C'mon."

They close the bathroom door so the others can go on sleeping undisturbed, and Kenny adjusts the temperature of the water, knowing Kyle will correct it. He was expecting Kyle to make it less hot, not more. 

"You've got a thing for pain, too, huh?" Kenny says, hissing when he climbs under the hot blast of the shower, steam already fogging up around them. Kyle frowns and lets Kenny pull him forward, Kenny's hands on his hips.

"What?" Kyle says.

"The water – never mind. Here, turn around. I'll do your back first."

Kyle does as Kenny asked, sighing when the soap touches his skin, already calmed by that scent, the antidote to the bodily fluids that are crusted over his skin. Kenny kisses Kyle's neck while he washes his back, pushing his hand down between his ass cheeks to clean him there, too. Kyle gasps and presses back, and Kenny can taste all of them on his neck, even Butters. 

"God, it feels so normal," Kyle says, laughing. "After everything."

"What does?" Kenny asks, wanting to hear him articulate it, and knowing, already, exactly what he means. 

"You. Just. In the shower with me like this. Washing me or whatever." His voice gets quiet toward the end, and Kenny snakes his hands around to wash his front, his sides.

"This was mine," Kenny says, scrubbing the place just over Kyle's hip where he unloaded when Kyle pulled his hair. "Right here."

"I know," Kyle says. "I felt it." 

"Did you? I wasn't sure."

"Mhmm, yeah. Kenny." Kyle turns around and blinks up at him in the low light. Stan has a dimmer on his bathroom switch, used to joke that he needed mood lighting to crap by. Kenny put the light on what might be described as a romantic setting, but he can hardly be blamed, he was half asleep. He presses his nose to Kyle's.

"What?" Kenny says, because Kyle is just looking at him, smiling. There's no way he can actually be this calm, unless he's just too dazed by the evening's activities to remember what tomorrow is. 

"You could fuck me," Kyle says, putting his hands on Kenny's chest. "If you want."

"I know." Kenny tugs him closer. "I will. Just give me a minute." 

Kyle's eyes get a little wider, and Kenny likes that, still being able to surprise him after all they've already done. He kisses Kyle's parted lips, trying to remember if they've kissed yet, and of course they have, but not like this, softly. The steam makes their hair damp, and Kenny lets Kyle clean him, too, holding Kyle against him while he rubs the soap over Kenny's skin. 

"You're awfully calm," Kyle says when he's washing Kenny's back, reaching around him to slide his soapy hand up Kenny's spine. 

"I was going to say the same thing to you," Kenny says. 

"Ha. Well." Kyle looks up into Kenny's eyes, that haze of lust quickly gone. "You've got something planned, haven't you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Kenny-"

"I said don't worry." 

Kyle groans and puts the soap down. He moves his hand over Kenny's back while the water rinses the suds away, pushing soap bubbles down toward his ass. 

"You didn't clean me here," Kenny says, catching Kyle's hand and holding it over his crack. "Where Stan was." 

"Do you want me to?" Kyle asks. Kenny can't believe he successfully changed the subject. Maybe Kyle doesn't really want to talk about it, either. 

"I'm not asking you to lick it out," Kenny says. "Just use your fingers. If it's not too weird." 

"Too weird?" Kyle snorts and raises his eyebrows. Despite this refutation of the potential for weirdness, he's a little shy when he touches Kenny there, feeling him carefully, and it's just right under the burn of the water, Kyle's timid fingers playing around the rim of him like he knows that Kenny is sore, like he's trying to soothe him. Kenny would prefer being teased, maybe even taunted for how raw he is, but Kyle won't know how to do that and Kenny is glad. He can get that from Cartman, maybe, later. 

"Hang on a sec," Kyle says, his fingers sliding away. He steps toward the shower curtain. 

"Where are you going?" Kenny asks. 

"I have to pee," Kyle says, his shoulders lifting a little. "Don't look, okay?" Kenny grins and grabs his wrist. 

"Hey, Kyle," he says, pulling him back.

"What? Just - wait, I'll be done in one second -"

"You know how I made a list of all the stuff I wanted to try tonight?"

"Yes," Kyle says, rolling his eyes. "Why?"

"One of them was, well. I think one of the things you should try tonight is peeing in the shower. Because you never have."

"Gross," Kyle says, wrinkling his nose. "I can't believe you guys do that."

"Only sometimes," Kenny says. "It's just convenient. Or maybe it feels kinda good. You'll never know if you don't try."

"Really? Really, Kenny? This is the one thing you're going to try to talk me into?"

"Oh, please, I've talked you into everything you did tonight. And you liked it all, yeah?"

"Well, yeah, but." Kyle scowls. "You know how I feel about pee!"

"Yeah, and I know how you feel about Cartman. Getting off with him still felt pretty good, right?"

Kyle smirks. "Are you comparing Cartman to urine?"

"No, as much as you might enjoy that. I'm saying that tonight is about confronting your fears, Kyle, and your insecurities, and turning them into something good."

"Something good. Like peeing in the shower."

"Yes, or sucking Cartman's balls. And, also. You could do me a favor."

"Oh, what?" Kyle reels backward. "Kenny, I'm not peeing on you."

"Why not? It's on my list!"

"Wha - how - why would you want that?" Kyle is boggling, and Kenny can't help but laugh. 

"I dunno," Kenny says. "It's just one of those things I've never tried." 

"Yeah, and you can go to your grave feeling good about that. Now let me go, I need to pee."

"Please, Kyle? Please?" Kenny pulls him close again, and Kyle whines, letting himself be pulled. "The soap is right here. If you feel dirty after, I'll clean you again."

"Kenny," Kyle says, moaning. He sounds irritated, but there's some vague interest sneaking into his eyes, and he's hard, his cock pressed to Kenny's thigh.

"I'll fuck you real good after," Kenny says, whispering this in Kyle's ear. "Get you all dirty again." He licks along the rim of Kyle's ear and feels him shudder as he steps a little closer. 

"Why can't you just make Butters pee on you?" Kyle asks. "He'll do anything." 

"I know, but that's why I don't want to ask him. I want you to want this, dude. To let it go." 

"You're so weird," Kyle says, mumbling, but some of the tension has left his shoulders, and he's leaning into Kenny's embrace now. He gasps when Kenny reaches down to touch his cock. 

"Are you sensitive?" Kenny asks, stroking him softly, whispering. "'Cause you're so full?"

"Kenny, _Jesus_."

"It's okay, Kyle. It's just me. I promise I won't tell Stan." 

Kyle whimpers and slumps against him, rubbing himself on Kenny's hand. Kenny actually didn't think it would be this easy, but Kyle really was sent into some kind of frenetic sexual awakening by watching Stan come, or maybe just by kissing him, or maybe it started when Kenny took his pants off and looked around at the rest of them like the only logical conclusion would be for them to get undressed, too. He was so afraid they would refuse. He really needed all of them for his plan to work: Butters with his sweet agreeability, Cartman with his selfish impatience, and Stan's openness, the trust he has in all of them. Those were the three ingredients required to get the crown jewel, prudish Kyle, to the state he's currently in, humping Kenny's hand with a full bladder, squeezing his arms. 

"I can't," Kyle whispers, hiding his face against Kenny's shoulder. "Ah - it won't come."

"Just relax," Kenny says. He rubs his hands down over Kyle's back and gives his neck a gentle pinch. "Just let it happen." He takes Kyle's cock and presses it to the inside of his thigh, aimed downward. He actually didn't have this on his list, and could give two shits about being peed on. He just wants Kyle to trust him. That's why his cock is hard and heavy right now, throbbing; Kyle is so close to trusting him this much.

"Ah- Kenny-"

"Shh, it's okay. It'll be our secret, alright? You know I'd never judge you, I'd never laugh at you. You can do this to me, I don't mind. You can do anything to me, anything you want." 

"I don't - don't want to hurt you, degrade you-" Kyle is shaking a little, staring down at his dick, his nails digging into Kenny's arms. 

"You could never hurt me," Kenny says. "If I took a bullet for you, it would feel good. I'd want it. This is hardly a bullet, right? Just let it go, Kyle, it's okay. I can take it."

So maybe this isn't entirely about Kyle trusting him, or it is, but it's more than that, too. Kyle gasps as he watches it happen, then whimpers, and Kenny can barely feel it as it mixes with the hot water from the shower, so he watches Kyle's face to get the full effect, his disbelief and vulnerability, his eyebrows arching, mouth open. When he looks up at Kenny his mouth is still open, and he's asking for approval, begging for it. 

"That was good," Kenny says, nodding, kissing the corners of Kyle's mouth, his trembling eyelids. "So good, thank you, thank you for that." 

"Fuck me," Kyle says, his hands unclenching and his arms sliding up to wind around Kenny's neck. "Please, now, please."

"Shh, okay. C'mon, let's turn the water off. Shower sex is a total bust, trust me." 

They do it on the bathroom floor, mostly dried off, Kenny with his back to the wall and Kyle in his lap, lowering himself down slowly. They both exhale when Kenny is fully enclosed, and Kenny can't believe how tight he still feels, even after Cartman's pounding. They just kiss for awhile, Kyle's hips wiggling a little, his arms pressed to Kenny's chest, hands on his shoulders. It's calm, quiet, and Kyle stops at one point to sit back and look at Kenny as if he's seeing him from years in the future, remembering this moment and understanding it in hindsight. 

"Don't let him do whatever he thinks he's going to do," Kyle says. Kenny is a little fogged by the feeling of Kyle all around him, but it doesn't take him long to catch on. He's talking about Stan. He's talking about tomorrow.

"I won't," Kenny says. "I'll keep him safe. I promise." Kyle nods slowly, and his eyes fill up, but he takes a deep breath, lifts his chin, and beats the tears back. 

"I know," Kyle says. He leans onto Kenny's chest again, his eyelashes fluttering against Kenny's cheek. "I know you will, oh. Kenny."

"It'll be okay," Kenny says, trying to make this promise with his whole body, wishing he could help Kyle understand that, whatever sacrifice he makes, they'll forget it and he'll be returned to them. It's fair enough for him, for now, but Kyle is shaking hard, afraid of what he thinks he's asking Kenny to do. "It'll be okay, I promise," Kenny says, moving inside Kyle as he says so, his hands sliding over Kyle's back. "Trust me, please trust me. It'll be okay."

They both come, Kyle pumping his sort of lovingly onto Kenny's chest, the inverse of what he did in the shower, and Kenny is deep inside Kyle when he comes, pushing a soft moan into Kyle's damp curls. They stay connected for a long time, Kyle's head resting on Kenny's shoulder while Kenny strokes his back, pretending to mistake the tears that are dripping onto his skin for droplets of water from Kyle's hair. 

"What would we do without you?" Kyle asks. His voice is small, and Kenny knows what he's really asking, what he thinks he has to contemplate: _What_ will _we do without you?_

"You'd be a square," Kenny says, grinning when Kyle sits up to look at him, frowning, confused. "Perfect but boring. A blunt object."

"Huh?"

"'Cause now, with the five of us?" Kenny isn't sure he should say this while Kyle thinks he's going to die, but he wants to tell someone, and maybe only Kyle will appreciate this. "We're five points of the same star." He draws one on Kyle's chest in demonstration. Once, for Kyle's thirteenth birthday, Stan got him a Star of David necklace. It was pretty, made of real silver, bought with money Stan had saved up all summer from his paper route. Kenny was so jealous of him for being able to give that to Kyle, but he's grown up a lot since then. He doesn't get jealous anymore, not really. He has his own gifts to give them. 

"We should all get tattoos of that," Kyle says. He's drawing stars on Kenny's chest now, too, sniffling. "In the same place. Just a little star somewhere."

"Isn't that against your religion?" 

"Oh, fuck, you're right," Kyle says. He sighs. "You get mine for me, okay?"

"Okay." Kenny kisses the end of his nose. He could stay here all night, inside Kyle, the humidity of the shower lingering around them, but he misses the others, and he knows Kyle does, too. "Want to go back out there and see if anyone else is awake?"

"In a minute," Kyle says, and he throws his arms around Kenny's neck again. "Just give me a minute."

When they emerge from the bathroom everyone appears to be still sleeping, Cartman snoring faintly, his arm thrown across Butters' back. Stan is apart from them, curled up with his arms tucked to his chest, and they look at each other before hurrying to him, both of them a little ripped apart by the fact that he looks cold. They climb onto the bed as carefully as they can, Kyle spooning himself up behind Stan and Kenny sliding down between him and Butters. Stan is sleeping deeply, and he doesn't seem to register the renewed warmth. Kenny reaches down to find the only blanket that isn't crushed under one or several of them, and he pulls it up over all of them. Butters gasps when Kenny settles down beside him again, his eyes flying open wide.

"Kenny!" he says, whispering. He glues himself to Kenny's side, wrapping a leg around his waist and moaning a little. "I had a bad dream about you," he says. 

"It was just a dream," Kenny says. "I'm right here, I'm fine." He can feel Kyle staring at the back of his head as he says so, thinking this untrue. Kenny tucks an arm around Butters and kisses his temple. Butters always smells so good, so untouched, even like this, his neck dotted with hickeys and someone's come drying under his jaw. Kenny flakes it off for him and tugs on one of the nightie's straps. "You want to leave this on?" he asks.

Butters shrugs. "It itches a little."

"Here, then, c'mon." Kenny helps him out of it, and they both sigh when it's been tossed to the floor, Butters squirming against Kenny's freshly cleaned skin.

"That feels good," Butters whispers, and they've all said that and thought that a million times tonight, but for Kenny it's never meant more. Butters is soft and sleepy, squirming against Kenny's chest and pulling Cartman more snugly to his back. Cartman grumbles and wakes partially, narrowing his eyes at Kenny from over Butters' shoulder.

"What the hell time is it?" he asks. 

"I don't know," Kenny says, and he's afraid to look. He's avoided the digital clock on Stan's bedside table all night, and in fact intentionally threw his shirt over it at the start. He can hear Kyle moving it aside when he leans up to check the time. 

"Jesus," Kyle says. "Almost four in the morning." 

"Well, fuck me," Cartman says. 

"No thanks," Kyle says. 

"I didn't - dammit, Kahl! There is one more thing I wanted to do, though."

"There's like a billion more things I wanted to do," Kenny says, rubbing his hand through Butters' hair. "But look, Butters is tired. Stan is passed out. Maybe we should just quit while we're ahead."

"M'okay," Butters says, muttering this against Kenny's collarbone, his eyes closed. 

"Quit?" Cartman says, sitting up. "Hell no! Look, Kyle's still awake, you're still awake. Butters is up for anything and you know it. Fuck Stan, let him sleep." 

"Sleep through what?" Kyle asks. He's huddled over Stan, glaring at Cartman.

"A contest," Cartman says, grinning. He still seems a little dozy, his eyes puffy and his cheeks flushed. "Between me and you."

"Christ, is that all you ever think about?" Kyle says. He frowns. "What sort of contest?"

"Well, Butters wanted to get fucked by everyone here," Cartman says, rubbing his hand over the back of Butters' neck. Butters arches into the touch, mewling. "And my little slut gets whatever he wants. That means your dick up his ass, Kahl, but let's make it interesting. I'll fuck Kenny in the meantime, and whoever makes their bottom bitch come first wins." 

"I'm all for it if Butters is," Kenny says, and he's pretty sure Butters is, because he's getting a little hard against Kenny's stomach already. 

"Yeah," Butters says. He yawns and sits up on an elbow. "Let's do it."

"It's not a fair match up, though," Kyle says. "I - I've never even done this, and Butters is all tired, and Stan wanted me to-"

"You can still fuck your precious Stan later, Kahl! You guys already lost your virginity to each other, gah, you really need to lose your reverse virginity to each other, too? Stan fell asleep, so that's tough shit for him. Are we doing this or not?"

"Oh, we're doing it," Kyle says. "But the contest isn't who can make the other person come first. All you'd have to do is jerk their dick, bam, you're done."

"We could make a no touching dicks rule!"

"No, Cartman, listen. It's whoever lasts longer. And no cheating by just lying there. The person on top has to be moving the whole time."

"Why does it have to be a contest?" Kenny asks, because he wants Cartman in him, but not if he's going to drag himself out as slowly as possible in order to beat Kyle. 

"Because it just does Kenny, okay!"

"Shh!" Kyle says, pressing his hand over Stan's ear. "You're gonna wake him up."

"Oh, Jesus, Kahl, fine. If you'd rather lie there licking Stan's ass than give poor Butters his dying wish, be my guest. I guess I can fuck 'em both if you're not man enough." 

"I didn't say that!" Kyle says, hissing. "I just said to keep it the fuck down. C'mon, we'll do it on the floor."

"Sweet," Cartman says, smiling again. "I am so going to be better at this than you."

"Yeah, we'll see."

It's definitely the weirdest fuck Kenny has ever had, and not just because it's Cartman back there, huffing and sweating as he stretches it out for a long as possible. It almost feels like an inner body massage more than a fuck, Cartman staying continuously in motion but just barely, his arms shaking as he struggles to hold himself up over Kenny's back. Kenny has his cheek pressed to the floor and his ass just slightly lifted, enjoying the view as Kyle fucks Butters. 

Butters is on his back, his legs wrapped around Kyle, and Kyle's strategy seems to be to distract himself with kissing. His hips aren't even moving especially slowly, and Kenny can't decide if the little squeaking noises Kyle makes with every thrust are intentional or not, because they've definitely caught Cartman's attention, and Kenny can feel Cartman's cock twitch inside him whenever one of Kyle's squeaks gives way to a moan. Butters is being perfectly quiet, as commanded by Cartman, but he seems to be enjoying all the kissing, and he and Kyle look cute as fuck as they lick at each other, exchanging panted breath.

"Yeah, here it comes, right, Kyle?" Cartman says, sounding winded. "He's probably clenching around you pretty hard, right? Getting you super close? You're clenching, right, Butters?"

"No, Eric, that would be cheating!"

"Shut up, Cartman!" Kyle says, still humping Butters, and Kenny has to stuff his hand in his mouth to keep from cracking up. "No talking between teams, remember?"

Kenny loses it then, laughing hard, and Cartman flops down against his back, panting hot breath against Kenny's neck.

"Kahl, seriously, I need a time out," Cartman says. He's already stopped moving, and the feeling of being pressed to the floor by his heft while still impaled on his dick is pretty much right up Kenny's alley. "You can have one, too, just, eh. I've fucked more people tonight than you have, um, like, including you? So, um, I'm more tired than you? So actually, maybe you shouldn't get a time out."

"Whatever," Kyle says. "If you get a time out, I get one, too. Ah, not that I need one." He ducks down to kiss Butters, who has both his hands in Kyle's hair, his toes curling up when Kyle licks into him. 

"Don't kiss him so much," Cartman says. 

"Why the hell not?" Kyle asks, breaking away in mid-kiss.

"It's not fair! I'm not kissing Kenny."

"Well, you could be if you'd just flip him over. Kenny, dude, are you okay down there?"

Kenny laughs and gives Kyle the thumbs up. 

"I love how you said that like I'm in a well that I just fell down," Kenny says.

"'Ey!" 

"Well, that's how he said it!"

Kyle laughs then, too, and Butters grins, and suddenly Kenny can't stop laughing, because it's hilarious, this, the supposed last night of their lives, and they're not even drinking, not even eating a decadent last meal, unless this counts, because maybe they're having each other for a last meal. Yeah, they are.

"Stan!" Kyle says, and they all turn toward the bed, Kenny pressing his other cheek to the floor. Stan is sitting up on his elbows, looking groggy, and he's smiling.

"Uh," he says. "What the fuck are you guys doing?"

"It's a fight to the death," Kenny says. "And me and Butters' asses are, uh, the weapons? The arenas, actually, I guess."

Stan snorts and stretches his arms out toward the headboard, resting his forehead against the mattress, still smiling, and even Cartman would have to admit that Stan looks perfect like this. He looks like someone who is okay with what he thinks will be the last night of his life, because everything he loves is here, and because it will still be here after he's gone. Maybe Kenny is just projecting, though he wouldn't really know. If the last night of his life ever catches up to him, he won't see it coming. 

"Cartman, are you falling asleep back there?" Kenny asks, and everybody laughs again, even Butters, who does a full body giggle that makes Kyle moan and drop his head down to Butters' chest. 

"Fuck you guys, seriously," Cartman says, starting to drool onto the back of Kenny's neck a little. 

"Hey, I got a proposition for you," Kenny says to Cartman, canting his ass back. "You want to just lie back for awhile, take it easy?"

"You guys don't even know," Cartman says, mumbling. "I fucked – this is three now, right? Yeah, three of you. Nobody else here's done that many."

"Butters has _taken_ four," Kyle says. "I'd say that's harder." He kisses Butters between his eyes, and Butters smiles up at him appreciatively. 

"You guys, don't be so hard on Eric," Butters says. "He hasn't been sleeping well."

"Shut up, Butters!" Cartman says, reviving a bit. 

"What I'm trying to offer is to fuck you, _Eric_ ," Kenny says. "If you want to lie back and just take it for goddamn once."

"Ah – no – that's-"

"It's your last chance, Cartman," Stan says, leaning up onto his elbows again. "Kenny's done it, I've done it. You don't have to feel bad about it. It's pretty great."

"Seriously, dude," Kenny says, squeezing around him. Cartman whimpers and tugs on Kenny's hair, making him moan. "You can pull my hair while I fuck you, if you want," Kenny says, though he actually sort of has other plans. 

“Stan, you have not done it,” Cartman says, his mouth moving on the back of Kenny's neck. 

“Kenny did it to me with his fingers,” Stan says. “At least let him do that. It's awesome.” 

“Yeah, c'mon, fat boy,” Kenny says, reaching back to rub his fingers through Cartman's hair. “I'll make you feel good.” 

“Don't call me fat,” Cartman says, and Kenny actually feels kind of bad.

“You're not fat,” Kenny says. He reaches down to pinch Cartman's ass, and groans when Cartman shifts inside him; he's gotten so used to the feeling that he almost forgot he was in there. “You're big boned,” Kenny says, clenching around him.

“Eff you, Kenny,” Cartman says. He licks the back of Kenny's neck and sighs, pulling out of him in a long drag that makes them both groan. “For the record, I'm only letting you do this because I'm too tired to move.”

“Sweet,” Kenny says, his own exhaustion hitting him as he struggles up onto his hands and knees. His ass is still sort of gaping, and he's hard as hell, won't last long. 

“So I won,” Kyle says, huddled against Butters' chest and looking like he might fall asleep there, Butters' arms and legs wrapped around him. “I won, right?”

“No!” Cartman says. He's propped against the side of the bed, letting Stan pet his hair. “I forfeited. But, like, whatever, hurry up and come in him.”

“Yeah, Kyle, hurry up,” Stan says, and Kyle seems re-energized by the look that passes between them, like Stan just told him a secret in their super best friends telepathic language. Kenny is pretty sure the secret is that Stan wants him next and can't wait much longer. Kyle grins and looks back to Butters, mouthing at his jaw. 

“You want it?” Kyle asks him. 

“Uh-huh,” Butters says. He puts his arms up over his head, inviting Kyle to pin them there, and he does. Kenny watches them until he's distracted by the sound of Stan kissing Cartman, which is pretty fucking weird. Kenny stares openly, but they don't seem to notice. When Stan pulls back Cartman is glowering at him, blushing. 

“You're such a dick,” Cartman says, like Stan just threw a pie at him or something. Stan smirks and looks at Kenny. 

“Don't hold back, okay?” Stan says. “He's needed to get the shit fucked out of him for, like. Ever.”

“Don't tell Kenny what to do!” Cartman looks at Kenny, still blushing. “And, like. News flash, okay, um. Butters doesn't fuck me. So, like. Don't act like I've, like. Done this. 'Cause I haven't.” 

“No kidding,” Kenny says. He climbs into Cartman's lap and pinches both of his bright red cheeks. “I'll be gentle with you, darling.” 

“Sick, Kenny!” Cartman grabs Kenny's wrists and pulls his hands away. Stan is laughing hard, rolling across the bed. Kyle is panting, whining, pretty obviously worn out, and Kenny wonders if he'll even be able to get it up again after this. They're all watching him and Butters now, Kyle's skinny hips pumping as hard as he can manage, his hands clawed around Butters' wrists and his teeth gritted, head tucked to his chest.

“Come on, Kyle,” Stan says. 

“Jesus, I need it, I need to, I just -” Kyle says, panting, eyes closed. 

“Hurry up, asshole,” Cartman says. “You're making him sore.”

“No shit, ah, why d-do you think I can't finish?” Kyle glares at Cartman, still humping himself into Butters. “Ah – shit – Butters – want me to just stop? I'll stop, I just-”

“It's okay, Kyle, don't listen to them,” Butters is a little shaky, but he's still got his legs locked around Kyle's back, holding him in place. He leans up to lick Kyle's cheek. “You can do it, buddy,” he says, whispering. “Put that come in me, Kyle,” he says. “Put it in there, real deep.” 

“Uhngh, _yeah_.” Kyle deflates, shuddering as he pumps his orgasm into Butters. They're both exhausted, eyes closed, chests heaving as they soak up each other's relief. Kyle pulls out and Butters sighs, hugging Kyle back down to his chest while he leaks onto the carpet. They've all come in him tonight, and Kenny is kind of jealous, but Butters should have that for himself, the only one who can claim it. 

“Hey,” Cartman says. He sounds irritated but looks worried. “Butt munch? You okay?” 

“I'm good, Eric,” Butters says, giving him a drowsy smile. “You should try it. You're gonna try it, right?”

“Right, Eric?” Kenny says, pressing his face to Cartman's, trying to strike a note somewhere between obnoxious and endearing. Cartman rolls his eyes and heaves a dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he says. “If that will make you guys feel better about yourselves.” 

Kyle snorts. “'Cause that's always been your mission in life.” 

“Geez, look at you guys,” Stan says, and he scrambles off the bed while Kenny gets the lube and lets Cartman watch him pour some into his hand. 

“Oh, Jesus, Stan we're so impressed,” Cartman says, and Kenny turns to see Stan hoisting Butters up into his arms. Kyle is clinging to Stan's back, his legs wrapped around Stan's waist. Stan carries them both to the bed, and Kenny thinks he was actually pretty smart to have slept for as long as he did. Now he gets to be the only who isn't punch drunk and dragging. He sets Butters down on the bed, kisses his nose, then helps Kyle get under the blankets, too. Kyle moans and reaches for him, pulling him down for a kiss. 

“Stan,” Kyle says, dreamy and half asleep, rubbing his hands through Stan's hair as Stan stretches out on top of him. Cartman is watching them, tense. Kenny puts his fingers on Cartman's jaw and turns his head. 

“Ready?” he asks, and he kisses Cartman before he can answer. He can taste how tired Cartman is, or maybe he's just delirious himself, but it feels like a real kiss, and Cartman's body is strangely comforting, so much padding to press against, so many squeezeable places. 

“I want it on the bed,” Cartman says when Kenny pulls away to kiss his hot cheeks. 

“Alright,” Kenny says. He assumes Cartman just wants to interfere with Stan and Kyle's moment, but when he clambers onto the bed he avoids them and tucks himself in beside Butters. Cartman puts the blanket over himself, and Kenny is pretty sure he's holding Butters' hand beneath it.

“Well, are you fucking me or aren't you?” Cartman says to Kenny. 

“Stay on your back,” Kenny says when Cartman starts to turn over.

“Don't think you can order me around just because I'm being the girl for you,” Cartman says, but he settles down again, still on his back. 

Butters kisses Cartman while Kenny works him open, and Kenny watches them, letting Cartman slide a hand down to his ass under the blanket. He expects Cartman to try to get a finger inside him, too, as some measure of control, but he just squeezes Kenny's ass, the tightness of his fingers indicating whether or not Kenny is rubbing a particularly good spot. Cartman mostly stays quiet, which Kenny wasn't expecting. He doesn't think it will last, can see Cartman starting to crumble, hiding his whimpers in Butters' mouth. 

“Why'd you ever let me do this to you?” Cartman asks Butters when Kenny has two fingers inside him and a firm grasp on the location of his prostate, teasing it with little strokes that make Cartman jerk and shut his eyes. 

“You don't like it?” Butters says. 

“Nuh – I – it, it's pretty okay – don't stop, Kenny! Just, um.” Cartman stares up at Butters, who is hovering over him, cupping his face. Kenny glances over at Stan and Kyle to see if they're watching, and he grins at Stan when he sees Kyle tucked against his chest, the little spoon, fast asleep. 

“I just mean, like,” Cartman says, and Kenny keeps his fingers still, because Cartman looks like he's figuring something out, and he doesn't want to interrupt. “Like, why. Why did you let me. Me – why – I mean, did you know it would be like this?”

“I didn't know anything,” Butters says. “Eric, oh.” He puts his lips to Cartman's ear, but Kenny can hear what he whispers there: “I just wanted you to keep kissing me. I think I would have done just about anything, as long as you kept kissing me.”

Kenny's plan was to get Cartman to call him a poor piece of shit, or white trash, or any of the other things he's said over the years, and to pummel his ass in retaliation, but it doesn't really shake out that way. He sits back on his knees and fucks Cartman slow while Cartman gasps into Butters' mouth, and it's like he's fucking him for Butters, standing in as a surrogate, or just showing them both that Cartman can be like this, too, wide open. Cartman says Kenny's name when he comes, and it's nice to know that he remembers who's inside him. When Cartman reaches for him Kenny takes his hands and pulls him up, away from Butters, toward his mouth. 

“I want this on my tombstone, okay?” Kenny says, biting at Cartman's lip. “Here lies Kenny McCormick – he took Eric Cartman's virginity.”

“Fat fuh – fucking chance, you goddamn crack baby,” Cartman says, and there's something gleeful in it, like he had the same plan Kenny did when this began. They get close to enacting it toward the end, Kenny pushing him down and fucking him hard, demonstrating the raw power of white trash cock. Cartman shouts when Kenny shoves in with his last unhinged thrust, coming harder than he has all night, and Kyle wakes with a start. Kenny is buzzing while Stan updates Kyle on what's going on, and Cartman doesn't push him out, just puts a clammy hand on the back of Kenny's neck and lets him rest atop the pillowy landscape of his chest. He rides Cartman's heaving breaths until they start to slow, feeling as light as a feather on the surface of a lake. 

When Kenny finally gathers the energy to dismount, Stan pushes the Broncos mug into his hand. Kenny drinks half the water in it and gives the rest to Cartman. He rubs Cartman's fat knee and crawls over to lie between Butters and Kyle, who is trying to remain awake, his eyelids drooping while Stan kisses his neck, still spooned up behind him. Kenny rests his forehead against Kyle's and Kyle cups his cheek, his thumb twitching in an exhausted attempt to pet him. 

“You're so good,” Kyle says, and even though Kenny is pretty sure this isn't what he meant, he realizes then that he's been inside all of them, and that he's the only one in this room who can claim that. The only one in the world.

“You're better,” Kenny says, and it's true, and it's why he's going to show up at Trent's door tomorrow morning. 

“Sleep, Kenny,” Stan says, reaching over to put his hand on top of Kyle's. Behind them, Cartman is already snoring a little, and Butters has passed out, too, wrapped up in Cartman's arms under the blanket. “It's okay if you sleep.”

“No,” Kenny says, but it's happening against his will, his eyelids growing heavier. 

“Yes,” Kyle says, and Kenny doesn't have the heart to refuse him. He sleeps.

Dawn is glowing just faintly through the window when he wakes to the sound of someone crying. If he wasn't so spent he would leap into action, but he's glad when he doesn't, because as he wakes a bit more he realizes it's not crying, though it's something close. Kyle is on top of Stan, inside him probably, and they're trying to keep quiet, panting against each other's mouths. Kyle is moving in careful little undulations, shifting the mattress as little as possible, his hands pressed to Stan's face. 

“Yeah,” Stan whispers, and he's the one who's crying, or they both are, or maybe neither of them are. Kenny watches them through netted eyelashes. 

“You're not – going anywhere,” Kyle says, wet little gasps between every word. “I won't – let you, won't let you -”

“Shh,” Stan says. They kiss, and Kenny lets his eyes fall shut. He falls asleep to the sound of their crying, or fucking, or whispering to each other, all of it mixing together until it's just the sound of them, helping him sleep because it means they're close to him, still here, still safe.

He doesn't sleep for long, and when he wakes again they're all quiet, sleeping. He sits up in the middle of the exhausted pile of them, these people he'd go to hell for a thousand times. Cartman is so huge around tiny Butters, and the way he holds him reminds Kenny of that frog doll Cartman used to sleep with. Kyle is lying on his stomach, Stan's arm tossed across his back, his hand stretched out toward Kenny. He wants to touch Stan's fingers, to curl them up and kiss them, but he needs to leave now. As soon as he moves, Stan grabs his wrist.

"Jesus Christ," Kenny says, whispering. Stan lifts his face from Kyle's back, one eye still closed. "You scared me."

"Sorry," Stan says. He's still holding Kenny's wrist, staring him down, unblinking. "Where are you going?"

"Just outside for a minute, for a cigarette. I've never had that much sex without a smoke afterward. I'm dying here." 

Bad choice of words. Stan holds his gaze, his fingers tightening around his wrist. Kenny will punch Stan's lights out if that's what it takes to keep him here, warm under this blanket with the others, where he belongs. Stan might know this, because he lets Kenny go and puts his hand over the bump of Kyle's shoulder blade, resting his cheek on Kyle's back again, still staring at Kenny. 

"Did you get to do everything you wanted?" Stan asks. "Everything on your list?"

"Almost," Kenny says. "There's one more thing." 

"Yeah?"

Kenny leans down to Stan, smoothes his dark hair off his forehead and kisses him once, softly, on the lips. He pulls back, his eyes burning a little, but it's no worry. He's never really been a crier.

"I love you, dude," Kenny says. He smiles at Stan's bewildered expression. "Stanley Marsh. I love you so much."

Stan's eyes widen, his brow pinching as he tries to figure out how to respond to that. Kenny leans down to Kyle, tucking a bright red curl behind his ear.

"Love you, Kyle," he whispers. "A lot, God, so much." He kisses Kyle's temple, soft enough to let him go on sleeping. He can feel Stan staring at him as he turns toward Butters and Cartman, and it hurts, being looked at like this, by someone who is waiting for an explanation that won't be given, but he's always been willing to take bullets when he has to. He runs his fingers over Butters' shoulder, and pulls the blanket up over him when he shivers, tucking him back in. "Love you," he whispers, letting his lips touch Butters' ear, because even if he wakes, he'll let Kenny pretend that he hasn't. "Butters, Marjorine, Professor, Mantequilla, Leopold. I love every fucking inch of you." 

He lifts his head and looks at Cartman, grinning to himself at Cartman's expression, his eyebrows slightly pinched as he battles his way through some dream. He looks like he's kicking asses in whatever universe he's visiting. Cartman had a thousand ideas about how they could get rid of Trent, but Kenny has never wanted to see him become as evil as he thinks he is. It's the bullet he can take for Cartman, because somehow his innocence matters most of all, maybe because it's so small and tattered. It's still there; Kenny can see it when he sleeps.

"Hey, Eric, I love you," Kenny says, stroking his fingers through Cartman's light brown hair. It's fine and soft like a baby's, even silkier than Stan's. "You can put that on my tombstone, too. Here lies Kenny McCormick. He loved Eric Cartman." 

Cartman huffs in his sleep, frowning more deeply. Kenny strokes his hair again, and his expression softens. He twitches when Kenny takes his hand away, but he's still asleep. Kenny turns back to Stan. He's not crying, which is a relief, but he still refuses to blink, his eyes drilling into Kenny's. 

"So go smoke," Stan says. He's angry; his voice is tight. "We'll be here when you get back." 

"I know you will," Kenny says. He doesn't really know anything about his deaths, about what he can count on to be there when he returns, but he's come to believe that they're the ones who bring him back, without even knowing how. He doesn't need them to know how, just why. He touches Stan's face and climbs out of the bed, dresses in the dark and slips out of the room without looking back at them. 

He knows Stan will run to the window to watch him, so he exits the house through the back door and stands out on the porch, digging into the pocket of his parka for his cigarettes. It's cold outside, and they've had some flurries, but no big snow storm yet this season. Kenny can see his breath in the air, and the light that's creeping into the sky is menacing, a deadline, an ultimatum. He stares at the rusted old swing set in Stan's backyard while he smokes, and smiles when he hears the sliding glass door opening behind him, though he shouldn't be happy about this.

The footsteps that rush across the frosted porch could belong to an eight year old, and Kenny doesn't have to turn to know who's followed him out. Stan hits him hard, moaning, his arms winding around Kenny's chest, squeezing. Kenny sticks his cigarette between his teeth and reaches back to rub Stan's ear. He's not a crier, but if he turns around he might turn into one, and it's too late for tears.

"I love you, too," Stan says. His voice is pretty fucked, raw. "Okay? Alright? Kenny? I love you, I love you, we all do, you know we do, so don't – don't -"

"I know," Kenny says, and maybe he didn't until he said so out loud. He rubs his fingers over Stan's arms, his other hand still hooked around Stan's ear. "I know. Dude, it's okay. I'm just having a cigarette. Everything's fine."

"Oh, yeah," Stan says, scoffing wetly. He lifts his face from Kenny's shoulder and presses it to his neck, sniffling. "Like hell it is."

"Trust me, dude," Kenny says, wanting this so much, more than anything. "Everything's okay."

"Kenny, I-"

"Would I be this calm if I didn't believe that? Look, I know it seems impossible right now, but Monday morning? At that bus stop? We're all gonna be there, and we're gonna be fine. Cartman is going to be full of shit, and Kyle is going to call him on it, and you and me are going to laugh, and Butters is going to worry about a science quiz or some shit, and it'll be fine. Please, dude, believe that. Everything's going to be fine."

"But how could it be?" Stan asks. He's shaking. It's cold outside, and he's in short sleeves, sleep pants, bare feet. Kenny stubs his cigarette out against the porch railing and throws it into the backyard. He steels himself, turns around.

"I wish I could tell you how, but I can't," Kenny says, and he knows this won't be much of a comfort, because Stan just thinks he's talking about his impending sacrifice. He takes Stan's face in his hands and kisses him, trying to tell him like this, without words, though they've never really had their own wordless language. He realizes that he did this for the same reason Kyle did, at least partly: so he could finally kiss Stan. 

"Come back inside," Stan says when Kenny is just breathing his visible breath against Stan's face, waiting to know if he'll needs to punch him or not. He doesn't want to, can't imagine hurting him, but he'll do anything, anything. 

"I will," Kenny says. "Just let me have one more cigarette, okay? That last one kinda got cut short. Not that I'm complaining. And dude, you're shivering. You're shoeless. You go back in, okay? Go keep those guys warm for me. We're gonna figure this out, I promise." He grins, realizing what his way out will be, a small door opening. "You know I only played this whole Trent thing up so you guys would fool around with me like this, right? I mean, classic Kenny, yeah? And it was fun, and I'm glad I did it, but he's not going to kill us. He's just one guy, and we're five. We're the points of a fucking star, dude. So no worries." He kisses Stan again, wanting to drink the newly bewildered expression on his face like straight whiskey, because it's the payoff, Stan is buying this. "Go inside. I'll be right there. Just one more cigarette."

"Oh, um. Okay." Stan blinks, hesitates, then starts walking backward. Kyle wouldn't fall for this, and for that matter, neither would Butters. Cartman certainly wouldn't. The fact that Stan will, and does, makes Kenny love him more than anything anywhere, if only for just now, in these few seconds while he watches Stan get closer to the sliding glass door. He left it open, heat leaking out in the uncaring wilderness. Kenny waves, which is the wrong move, so he hurries to get another cigarette.

"I won't be long," Kenny says, and it's true, as far as he knows. 

He turns toward the backyard again and smokes. He feels Stan watching him for awhile, and as soon as he knows that Stan has headed back upstairs, he bolts for the stairs on the porch. Down them in two strides, he flings the backyard gate open and races to Stan's car. It's possible that Stan isn't checking the windows now, but if it he is, Kenny needs to act fast.

He'll give Stan money for new tires; he has no time to carefully let the air out. He uses his pocket knife to make two slashes in the back tires and runs to his truck, which is parked on the road. If this is one of those mornings when it won't start, God hates him. It starts. He peels away from the curb.

He checks the rearview mirror a thousand times, though he knows that no one will follow. Stan's car was the only one in the driveway. Everybody lives within walking distance. He wipes his dripping nose with his hand and turns on the radio, but all the songs grate on him, so he flips it off again.

Trent lives two streets over from the McCormick residence. Blond, poor, angry – Kenny hasn't missed the parallels. The only thing that matters is that, at four years old, Kenny was the one they trusted. They knew he was poor, bad, dangerous. Kids know those things; in a small town like this they're hard to miss. Trent was the one they feared. He was the one outside the circle, the one who was expendable. Kenny sits in his truck for awhile, his knee bouncing, his heel tapping the floor board, and he slams his eyes shut when the sun breaks the horizon. He makes himself think of the way Stan's grin shows in his eyes, the way Kyle blushes when he knows he's right, the way Butters does an unintentional tap dance when he's insanely happy, and the way Cartman laughs when it's so fucking inappropriate. He opens the door of the truck, gets out. His vision tunnels.

If Trent's household is anything like Kenny's, and Kenny knows that it is, no one will be expecting a caller at this hour. Trent will be sent to the door because he's the man of the house, because, like Kenny's, his father isn't worth a shit and is either passed out inside this house or elsewhere, wherever he fell down when he found the thing he's always looking for: the deepest and darkest indifference there is. Kenny thumbs the pocket of his jeans, feeling for the bag of meth that he planted there so that the cops will call this a drug deal gone bad. No one will flinch at the story: two kids from the wrong side of the tracks fucking each other up over drugs. People will flip to the next page of the paper, rolling their eyes, clicking their tongues. 

Trent answers the door. He looks tired. Kenny swallows that down and pushes it away. He waits for Trent to recognize him, waits to be attacked. Trent blinks, and it's so familiar, too human. Kenny has to look away.

"Uh," Trent says. "Yeah?"

"You don't recognize me?" Kenny says. 

"I do," Trent says. Kenny stares at Trent's hand, watching it close into a claw around the door, his nails scraping the wood. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Um." Kenny thought Trent would lunge at him, that there would be no dialogue, no chance to recognize the smell that emanates from this house, something like Pop Tarts and formaldehyde, familiar and terrible. Trent is staring at him, daring him to look him in the face, and Kenny is a pussy because he can't do it. He stares at an elder bug on the door frame. They should all be dead by now; it's too cold for harmless insects.

There's a sound in the driveway, and Kenny knows before looking that it's another truck. He turns, leaving himself vulnerable to anything Trent might want to plunge into his chest. Kenny still has his right hand in his pocket, poised to press the button on his phone that he's rigged to send a recorded message to the police. The truck that's pulling into the Boyetts' driveway is brand new and shiny clean. His dealer, maybe? 

The guy who gets out of the truck isn't immediately familiar, though Kenny probably passes him in the hall at school all the time. Gary is one of those people that Kenny has always looked past, because he's not a potential accomplice for anything worth doing, incorruptible, and Kenny has always had a chip on his shoulder about Mormons for afterlife-related reasons. Gary seems to recognize Kenny right away, and there's more angry tension emanating from him than from Trent, though he's smiling as he walks to the door. 

"Hey, Kenny," Gary says. His eyes flick to Trent's, and Kenny wonders if he was wrong about Gary, if he's been corrupt all this time and is here to help Trent fuck him up. "What are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"I live in this neck of the woods," Kenny says. He takes his cigarettes out of his pocket and then puts them back, because if he lights one they'll see his hands shaking. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was just picking Trent up for seminary," Gary says. "We go every Sunday before church. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."

"No, he's not," Trent says, and Kenny turns to him, able now to look him in the eyes. He looks like he'd quite enjoy bashing Kenny's head in with a tire iron, and also like he's not going to do it. 

"You're a Mormon now?" Kenny says, barely holding in a nervous laugh. 

"It's none of your fucking business what I am," Trent says. "What'd you come here for? What the hell do you want from me?"

Gary steps closer to Trent while they wait for Kenny to answer. Gary has a dorky satchel strapped across his chest and his hair is neatly combed, his shirt tucked in, but despite the lamb-like expression on his face, he's the one who's thinking seriously about kicking Kenny's ass. Kenny can feel it in the air between them, whereas Trent, unwashed and ashen, muscles bulging beneath his dirty t-shirt, just seems like he wants to curl up somewhere and go to sleep. Looking back and forth between them, Kenny realizes that Trent must have told Gary what happened, what they did to him.

"I don't know what I want," Kenny says. He takes a step backward, suddenly very aware of the emptiness in his stomach. "I think, ah. I'm confused. You guys are friends?"

"We met through my youth mentoring program," Gary says. "When Trent was still in jail." The way he pronounces that last word strikes Kenny like a blow, and his ears are ringing. 

"No, I, I do know why I came here," Kenny says. He looks down at their feet. Trent is in socks, and Gary is wearing expensive looking boots. "I think, I mean, you probably don't want to hear it, but I guess I came here to apologize." 

"You can save that shit," Trent says. 

"Trent, let him talk," Gary says. 

"Why should I? You're Catholic, aren't you?" Trent says to Kenny. "Go confess to one of your fucking priests if you're feeling guilty. I've made my peace with what you assholes did to me, and excuse me if I'm not real fucking interested in making you feel better about it." 

"Okay," Kenny says. He holds up both his hands and backs away. "I got it. I'll leave you alone."

"Wait a minute, Kenny," Gary says. He slides his arm around Trent's shoulders and draws him in close. "I think you need to do it like we talked about," he says to Trent, not quite whispering. "I think it would make you feel better."

Trent groans and puts his hand over his eyes. Gary rubs Trent's shoulder, letting him think about it. They're standing awfully close. Kenny feels like he's dreaming. He's running purely on adrenaline, so tired that he's swaying a little. 

"Fine," Trent says, and he looks at Gary the way that Kyle looks at Stan when he's been talked into tolerating Cartman. _For you_ , he's saying, so clearly that Kenny thinks for a moment that he heard it out loud. _I'd only do this for you_.

Nothing could have convinced Kenny that Trent would live a quiet life in South Park and leave them alone, except this. He's in love with somebody and wants to be good enough for him. Trent turns to Kenny, narrowing his eyes. 

"I could tell you what you put me through, but that's in the past," Trent says. "I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would do to you guys if I could, but that only made me feel worse, and lower, more helpless and fucking pissed off. You think you ruined my life, McCormick, but you don't have the power to do that. You were just a dumb kid, and what's done is done, and I forgive you." He puts his hand out toward Kenny. "You're forgiven."

Kenny is afraid that he'll burst into flames when he touches Trent's hand, but it would be no less than he deserves, so he reaches out and shakes with him. Gary watches this, looking pleased, that angry buzz in the air fading somewhat. He's still got his arm around Trent. 

"Thanks," Kenny says when Trent has let go of his hand. He steps backward and stumbles a little, catching the splintered porch railing for balance. "I have to - go, I think, I - I'm kind of. Freaking out, so."

"Are you okay to drive?" Gary asks, and his concern is so sincere that Kenny laughs, though it comes out sounding like the noise somebody makes when they get punched in the stomach. 

"I'm okay to drive," Kenny says, nodding, making his way down to the dirt path that leads to the driveway, still walking backward. "I just, ah. I gotta go."

"Well, alright," Gary says. "I suppose I'll see you at school."

"Uh-huh." Kenny will never again not notice him when they pass in the hallway.

"I gotta get changed into my church stuff," Trent says to Gary, muttering. "C'mon." He pulls Gary into the house by the strap on his satchel, and Kenny is left standing there, staring at the door after it's closed, trying to remember what he was doing. He can feel the sun on the back of his neck, climbing higher. He thought he'd be bleeding out on this unpaved driveway, listening to approaching sirens. He touches his intact, growling stomach, glad that he can keep this particular body for a little longer. This one is special.

He drives back to Stan's, trying to imagine how this will play out. He was so prepared for the other alternative, so certain, and he didn't think about what it would be like if they remembered everything. He's fairly sure his death would have erased their memories of last night along with all of the dread related to Trent's release. Kenny's biggest fear was that, when everyone forgot his death, Trent would get out of jail again. He'd considered killing him just to prevent that from happening, the guy who just shook his hand and told him he's forgiven. Kenny wants to pull over to the side of the road and sob, or throw up, or something, but he's speeding through the streets, because this feels like a dangerous miscalculation. What if there was something else he should have feared, not Trent, but some other certain doom that's racing toward them now, faster than him, stronger, ready to laugh in his face when he shows up too late?

He parks crookedly on the street outside of Stan's house and barrels out of the truck. His stomach lurches as he runs across the yard, but he swallows that sick feeling down again, because he doesn't have time for it. He needs to see them, to know they're okay, and he feels like he always does when he comes back and hurries to find out what became of them in his absence. They always tell him he's acting weird on those days, and what he acts like is someone who wants to gather them against his chest and cling until the world feels real again.

They're all there at the foot of the stairs when he throws the front door open, which he didn't expect. Stan has his jacket on and Kyle is holding Stan's arm, his face wet. Cartman is wearing a robe that barely contains him and Butters is wrapped up in a blanket that drops away from him when he runs toward Kenny, beaming, a pair of Stan's sweatpants sagging around his hipbones. 

"Kenny!" Kyle shouts, and then they're all running toward him, even Cartman. They all crash into him at once, the questions they have for him blending into a cacophony of exclamations, their hands on his face, his back, and pushing through his hair, their arms around his shoulders, his neck, everywhere they can reach, holding him tight. Kyle is crying again, Butters is worming inside his parka, Cartman is pinching the back of his neck as if to keep him from getting loose again, and Stan is just staring at him, his hands cupped around Kenny's cheeks while the others keep asking questions. 

"We were so worried!" Butters says, trying to wrap a leg around Kenny, too, his arms tight around Kenny's chest, slipped inside the jacket.

"Where did you go?" Kyle asks for the eight hundredth time, sniffling. "Did you see him? Are you okay?"

"Is this crack?" Cartman asks, pulling the bag of meth out of his pocket. 

"Yeah," Kenny says. "It's not for me, though. I was going to plant it, sort of. I had this whole plan." He's looking at Stan while he speaks, letting Kyle and Butters kiss his neck. 

"Are you okay?" Stan asks. His hands travel down Kenny's neck and slide along his chest, and he shifts Butters aside as if he's checking for injuries. Butters moans and resists, clinging tighter.

"I'm fine, dude," Kenny says. "You guys aren't going to fucking believe this, but Trent? Ah, he's Mormon now. Or, like, getting some Mormon ass, anyway. He's not going to hurt us. He forgave me. He shook my hand."

"Son of a bitch," Cartman says. "Butters, go call Air Tran and see if we can get those tickets to Mexico refunded." 

"Not yet, Eric," Butters says. His eyes are closed against Kenny's chest, and he's smiling, nuzzling him. "Give me a minute."

"I thought he was going to kill you," Kyle says, sobbing again. "Stan did, too, we were freaking out, oh, fuck, Kenny, fuck." He moans and holds Kenny tighter, wiping his wet face on Kenny's neck. 

"You're okay," Stan says. He seems a little dazed, his thumbs moving on Kenny's cheeks. "Dude, you're okay." 

"Yeah," Kenny says, and he beams, trying to get his arms around all of them, mostly succeeding. This is what he's wanted more than anything since he was five years old: to come through the door and have them run to him in relief, to know that they missed him when he was gone. 

"Alright," Cartman says, dislodging himself from the tangled, trembling mess of them. "I'm fucking starving. Stan, do you have eggs and milk?"

"I think so," Stan says. He gives Kenny a sharp kiss on the cheek, and it feels a little like a scolding, or a warning: _Don't do that to me again_. "Are you hungry?" he asks. 

"Fucking starving," Kenny says. 

"Butters, make us some waffles," Cartman says. 

"Yes, sir!" He's still holding on to Kenny, though, squeezing him.

"Wait, what was this about Trent getting Mormon ass?" Kyle asks, lifting his head from Kenny's shoulder, and Stan laughs. 

"Yeah, I was kind of wondering about that, too," he says.

"Well, pull up a fucking chair, dudes. I'll tell you the whole story."

Stan helps Butters make the waffles while Kenny tells them everything, leaning against the kitchen counter with Kyle still pressed to him, tucked under his arm. Cartman lingers close, too, drinking orange juice from the carton and laughing uproariously at the idea of Gary the Mormon kid and Trent Boyett having a secret romance.

"I don't really see how it's so different from your own situation," Kenny says, offended on behalf of those two. 

"What? It's totally different." Cartman blushes and drinks more juice, scowling. "Butters, will you put a goddamn shirt on? Your nipples are making me hard."

"Sorry, Eric," Butters says, covering himself.

"Jesus Christ, Cartman," Stan says. He pulls off his sweater and gives it to Butters. 

"What?" Cartman says. "My cock needs rest. It can only do so much for you people."

"So, um," Kyle says, lifting his head from Kenny's shoulder. "We're not going to die."

"We're really not," Kenny says, and in the moment it feels like it will always be true, like they've achieved a kind of invincibility that's actually worth something.

"So, last night," Kyle says. He clears his throat and looks at Stan when he turns from the waffle iron. "Yeah. That, uh. Happened."

"Kyle, don't get your lace panties in a goddamn wad," Cartman says. "I say we start doing that every Saturday night."

"I don't know about that," Stan says. "But, like. I mean, uh. I'm okay with - it. If you guys are." 

"I'm just glad we're all alive," Kyle says, ducking the question. He puts his head on Kenny's chest again, his ear pressed over Kenny's heartbeat. 

"It was the best sleepover ever," Butters says cheerfully. He looks hilarious in Stan's sweater, dwarfed by it. 

"Damn straight," Kenny says. 

"I think we could top it," Cartman says. "This coming Saturday. Yeah? Huh? What do you guys think?"

"Goddammit, Cartman," Kyle says, but he's grinning. 

They go back to Stan's bed after eating, all of them reeking of maple syrup now. Kenny pulls his clothes off but leaves his underwear on, and everyone else follows suit, except Cartman, who wasn't wearing anything under the robe. They arrange themselves so that Kenny is in the middle, Kyle and Butters clutching at his chest and Stan and Cartman spooned up behind them. They're touching Kenny, too, their hands resting on his shoulders. He doesn't usually sleep on his back, but he can definitely live with this arrangement, and he's so tired that he could probably sleep standing up if he had to. Cartman falls asleep first, snoring into Butters' hair, and Butters isn't far behind, as if that sound is like a lullaby to him. Kyle moans and fidgets a little, still sniffling, but he's out pretty quick, too. He'd be horrified if he knew that he's drooling onto Kenny's chest, but Kenny kind of likes it; it's cute. He looks over at Stan.

"You asshole," Stan says, but he doesn't look mad, his fingers closing more tightly around Kenny's shoulder. 

"Me?" 

"Yeah, you. You lied to me." 

"No, I didn't. I told you everything would be fine. And it's fine, right?"

Stan sighs. He pushes his face down against the back of Kyle's neck, blinking heavily, trying to stay awake. 

"I was gonna come get you," Stan says. "Kyle didn't want me to, but I wasn't going to let him stop me. I would have saved you, okay? If you needed me to. I know you don't think I could, but I will if I have to." 

"It's not that I don't think you could," Kenny says.

"You don't always get to be the hero," Stan says. "Not always." 

"I didn't feel heroic. I still can't believe he forgave me. Us. I don't think I would be big enough to do that."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Stan says, muttering, starting to fall asleep. "You're bigger than you think you are."

Kenny pets Stan's hair as he sinks into sleep, watching the tension ease out of his features, his lips parting on Kyle's neck. He does feel big, maybe just because Stan said so, or maybe because of the way they're all clinging to him, like he's their raft. He would be that for them if he could, if they needed it, but he's a point on their star, and that's where they need him, right here. That's why they're holding on so tight.


	6. For Science

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan shares everything with Kyle, even his foreskin.

They've done weird stuff before. It's no big deal. They're in bed together on the morning after a sleepover, Kyle's sleeping bag and pillow abandoned on the floor. He gets cold at night, okay, and Stan is so freaking warm, hogging all that body heat under his blankets up in the bed, and he never hesitates to scoot over and make room for Kyle. All Kyle has to do is work up the courage, stand, put his hands on the bed and whisper, _Dude?_

It's all the permission they need for anything, really. Just _Dude?_ in the proper tone, the _you're totally okay with me doing whatever I want with you, right?_ tone. It's the tone Stan used this morning when he asked Kyle if he had morning wood, and, when Kyle answered in the affirmative, if he wanted to join him in a casual early morning beat off. Kyle slid out of his pajama pants, and so did Stan, and now here they are, red-faced but calm, eyes glued to each other's cocks while they touch themselves.

"I can't tell if yours is bigger or if it's just the foreskin," Kyle says. His breath is choppy and he's pretty close to finishing already, because Stan, oh, Stan. The way he touches himself. He's so confident, that smooth roll of his palm. Or maybe it's just the foreskin helping him along. Either way, Kyle is sure he looks like a dumbass in comparison, lacking technique. 

"Want to measure?" Stan asks, grinning. He sounds like he's pretty close, too. 

"No," Kyle says, because he's afraid he'll be smaller. He's two inches shorter and he has a smaller shoe size, though just by one half.

"How come you never touch your balls?" Stan asks, reaching down to rub his own with his free hand. 

"I don't like balls," Kyle says.

"You don't _like balls?_ "

"That's what I said."

Stan laughs, almost giggling, pausing in his stroking to rub his thumb around the head of his cock. Kyle swallows a noise that would have been revealing, watching Stan smear his precome around.

"What a waste of ginger ball hair," Stan says. "You should appreciate that shit. It's rare."

"Oh my god," Kyle says, laughing now, too. "Fine, I'll trade you."

"Don't try to sell me your pubes, Kyle."

"Okay, well, then stop ogling them."

That was supposed to be a joke, but it flops out terribly, like a dead animal that Kyle has thrown onto the buffet table that Stan was eating from. Stan's smile sort of freezes on his face, and he rolls fully onto his back, away from Kyle, staring at the ceiling. 

"Dude, I was joking," Kyle says, trying to laugh. "You can ogle my ball hair all you want."

"I wasn't -- never mind." Stan closes his eyes and tilts his hips up a little bit, his hand moving faster. "Just, shh. I'm gonna come." He pushes his other hand up under his t-shirt when he says so, touching his chest. That's what puts Kyle over the edge: the shape of Stan's knuckles as they move beneath his t-shirt, and the way he's so unabashedly, well -- _pleasuring himself_ , which is something beyond just beating off, really. Kyle comes hard, groaning, and Stan gasps as he finishes himself off, his thighs dropping back onto the mattress.

They pant, hands still on their cocks, sticky now. Stan stares at the ceiling. Kyle stares at Stan. 

"Dude, good call," Kyle says. He wipes his hand on Stan's sheets, which are never that clean, anyway. Kyle doesn't mind. He likes the smell of Stan's come. He likes it so much that sometimes he thinks he'd like the taste, too.

"Good call?" Stan looks over at him, bleary, and when he grins Kyle knows he's forgiven. "What, that I came just then?"

"No, about a morning jerk off. I'm gonna get a towel."

"Good call," Stan says, closing his eyes again. He's let go of his cock, but his other hand is still pushed up under his shirt, resting at the center of his chest. Kyle wants to lick him so bad, especially across his panting mouth, because his lips get pink and fat after he comes. He flees the bed and grabs the towel that's hanging on Stan's bedroom door, still damp from the shower Stan took last night. 

"Thanks," Stan says when Kyle passes the towel to him, having already cleaned himself. Kyle starts to put his boxers back on. "Don't," Stan says. 

"Don't what?"

"Don't cover that ball hair just yet. I want to bask in its glory for a little longer."

Kyle snorts, pretty sure Stan is joking, but he leaves the boxers off anyway and climbs back into the bed. He doesn't pull the blankets up over himself, just spreads his legs and smirks like this is his joke, too, letting Stan check out his balls. 

"Your dick's easier to clean," Stan says, still rubbing the towel over himself. "No foreskin."

"I've heard it's better, though," Kyle says. "Like, you can feel more."

"Dude, that just means you come faster. And I bet it doesn't feel that much different."

"Easy for you to say," Kyle says. "You've got some."

"What, are you jealous?" Stan asks. He finishes with the towel and tosses it onto the bedroom floor. Kyle shrugs. 

"Not jealous," he says. "Just -- curious."

"You can feel it if you want," Stan says. He lifts his right leg, bending it at the knee, and Kyle laughs, because he's got to be joking. "What?" Stan says. 

"What do you mean, what? You want me to touch your dick?"

"Oh, whoa, you're right, that would be _weird_." Stan snorts. "Dude, whatever. I'm not trying to get off or anything. I just did that. Look, I'm soft. Touch it or don't, I don't care."

Something about Stan saying _I'm soft_ makes Kyle want to wrap him in cotton and tuck him away somewhere safe. Instead, he moves closer, wetting his lips and watching Stan's cock as it softens even further, the head going back into hiding, his foreskin creeping over it. 

"Aren't you still too, um." Kyle wets his lips again. "Sensitive?"

"Well, you're not gonna grab it and jerk it, are you?"

"No." 

"So no big deal. Just, you know. Be gentle."

"Oh. Okay."

Kyle moves closer still. He can smell that distinct fragrance that lives so strongly in this bed: that _Stan_ scent, his sweat and come and the warm musk of his skin. Kyle imagines it's strongest down between Stan's legs, maybe right at the juncture where his balls rest against his thighs. Not that he's thought about it much.

"Dude," he says when his fingers brush Stan's foreskin, but he's not asking for permission now, because Stan has already given it. Stan is breathing through his nose in measured little puffs. 

"So?" Stan says when Kyle presses his fingers in more firmly, moving Stan's foreskin back a little, forward again. "What do you think?"

"It's -- spongy." 

Stan laughs, high and nervous-sounding, and Kyle grins at him. Looking Stan in the eye suddenly feels like getting spiked through the chest, which shouldn't also feel good, but it does, and anyway, whoops: Kyle looks down at Stan's cock again, swallowing the wet lump in his throat.

"Touching is one thing," Kyle says. "But I'll never know. How it feels. Oh well." 

"What do you mean, how it feels?" Stan asks, sounding panicked, like Kyle just asked him to stuff this sucker up his ass or something.

"I mean to _have_ one. On my dick."

"Oh. Well. I could put it on yours, kind of."

Kyle snorts. "What?"

"I could, like. Roll it forward. Until it's on yours." Stan's face is brilliant red. This is definitely not something that is just now occurring to him, epiphany-like. He's obviously thought about it. "Jesus, never mind."

"No -- don't 'never mind' me. After saying that. I think, yeah. If it wouldn't gross you out, like. To have my cock. You know. All up on yours."

Kyle is red, too, he can feel it. They study each other, chests flickering with the beginning of something that might be laughter. If Stan bursts out laughing, Kyle will laugh, too, and move away, and be like, _Good one, dude, I thought you were serious for a sec_. But he doesn't laugh. Kyle moves closer, holding his breath.

"Hold yours out," Stan says, and it takes Kyle a second to figure out what he's referring to: Kyle's cock, which is getting stiff again, a little. He takes it and points it toward Stan's. Stan rolls his foreskin forward, until there's a little gap around and above the head. He wants Kyle to put his cockhead there. He's waiting, offering this to him. Kyle is going to have to make some kind of noise soon, or the moan that's growing in his chest will explode him. 

"Ah," Kyle says, and it comes out much more softly than he feared it would, or maybe softly is worse than gruffly. He starts shaking as he watches Stan roll his foreskin onto his cock, their cockheads touching inside Stan's foreskin, because that's where Kyle's is now, inside -- inside Stan's -- and -- oh -- it's warm, feeling really spongy now, and Kyle is more than a little hard. 

"See?" Stan says. He's sounding pretty soft, too, and Kyle can feel him shaking. They're connected _by dick_ , so Kyle can feel everything, every breath Stan is taking and carefully exhaling. 

"That is fucking awesome," Kyle says, fearing that he'll cry. Stan moans, nodding. He puts his forehead against Kyle's and they both stare down at their dicks, Stan pushing as much of his foreskin onto Kyle as he can. He keeps having to readjust, because he's swelling, his foreskin peeling back.

"You're wet," Stan says, whispering. "Or, uh. Is that me?"

"I don't know," Kyle says. "I'm getting hard. I'm getting really hard."

"I can see that, dude. Me too."

"Stan?"

"Yeah?"

Kyle looks up, having somehow forgotten that their faces are so close. Their noses brush together. It shouldn't feel even more intimate than sharing Stan's foreskin, but it does, and the flush on Stan's cheeks spreads. 

"Sometimes I wanna be inside you," Stan whispers, his foreskin retreating completely, their cockheads still bumping against each other, both of them slick with precome. Kyle whines and nods.

"The smell of your come makes me hungry," he says. 

"Oh, fuck," Stan says. "You slut," he says, but it's sweet, and then they're kissing, hard, Stan's tongue pressing into Kyle's mouth, demanding entry and getting it, wet and hot when it slides against Kyle's. 

Their fingers tangle together around their cocks, and they pump, kiss, and moan, Kyle's other hand scrabbling up under Stan's t-shirt, Stan's arm hooked tight around Kyle's back. When they come it's almost simultaneously, and one of Stan's teeth snags on Kyle's lip, a little shock of delicious pain mingling with his orgasm. Stan has terrible morning breath, but Kyle loves it, and he kisses him deeply as they both wind down, trying to breathe. 

"So?" Stan says when he can talk again. He hugs Kyle to him, smiling, and pulls the blankets up over both of them. "What'd you think?"

"Pretty good," Kyle says. He moans and puts his face against Stan's neck. "The kissing, too. I liked that part."

"Sorry I called you a slut."

"That's okay. The moment called for it." 

"Hey, if you're ever hungry for my come," Stan says, tipping Kyle's chin up so that their eyes meet. "You just help yourself to as much as you want, okay?"

Kyle punches him under the blankets and they laugh, wrestle tiredly, then kiss some more. Kyle is no longer jealous of Stan's foreskin, though it _is_ amazing. He just doesn't have reason to be jealous. That foreskin, that cock, this boy: they all basically belong to him.


	7. Dirty Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig gets off on Thomas. Thomas humors him.

Craig has never been politically correct. He's pretty sure that nobody in South Park is. It's some kind of requirement for living here. He hates this town, but he appreciates that most people here don't try to pretend that they're anything more than redneck mountain folk. Some of them still laugh into their hands if Thomas has an outburst in public, and Craig is no better, though he flicks those people off openly.  
  
Thomas is Craig's best friend, but Craig is just as prone to make him feel awkward about his Tourette's these days. As a kid, Craig never tried to hide the fact that he thought Thomas's condition was kind of awesome. He's too old to be so insensitive now, but his cock could give a fuck about any sensitivity that isn't directly related to friction and heat. He gets hard when Thomas says that word: _cock_ , one of his regular staples. He gets even harder if the word _ass_ follows close behind.  
  
It would be hilarious if it wasn't so humiliating: Craig Tucker wants his best friend's cock up his ass. The universe seems to be taunting him about this, because Thomas is always shouting those words in his presence, sometimes with the words _fuck_ and _hole_ mixed in for good measure. Just for added fun, Thomas is straight.  
  
"You - fuck! - you don't have to leave," Thomas says one afternoon when Craig is muttering excuses, holding his crumpled jacket over his crotch as he walks toward Thomas's closed bedroom door.  
  
"I just said I do," Craig says, his face hot. Thomas just got a text from a guy in his biology lab group who is really pissing him off, and it sent him into a furious stream of curses that actually included the phrase _fuck that fucker up the fucking ass with a twelve-inch cock_. Craig is a sucker for any mention of the size of the cocks Thomas is talking about.  
  
"No, dude - shit - cock! Seriously. I know, I mean. I'm not blind. Fucking- ass! I know you have a boner for expletives. You made that pretty clear when we were nine years old."  
  
"I didn't get actual boners back then," Craig says. He's standing by the door, his back to Thomas and his jacket still pressed pathetically over his erection. "And I don't want you to think that's the only reason why we're friends."  
  
"Craig - dude - fuck!" There's a long pause. "Are you gay or something?"  
  
"I'm the best looking guy at school and I don't have a girlfriend. So, yeah. Congrats for figuring that out, Sherlock."  
  
"You're so modest, dude," Thomas says. He sounds calm now, and Craig can hear his smile. He groans and turns around to glare at Thomas, showing him his red cheeks. He actually thinks Thomas is the best looking guy at school, though his looks are less magazine ready. Thomas is on the short side but stocky, the kind of guy you call when you need to move some furniture. He's dirty blond and just kind of dirty in general, picks up grass and oil stains from his various hobbies, and he has acne scars high on his cheekbones that make him look like he's always blushing. The persistent bags under his eyes only serve to make his irises look bluer. In Craig's opinion.  
  
"Dude, it's okay," Thomas says. Craig can't help but think that Thomas is relieved that Craig has something _wrong_ with him, too, though he knows Thomas is not a bigot and doesn't look at it that way exactly. "You don't have to run off every time the word cock gets you, uh. Shit - excited. I'm just sorry I say it so much - cah- _unh_!" He growls to hold it in that time, pinching his eyes shut.  
  
"Don't be sorry," Craig says, not sure where this conversation could possibly lead but to utter ruin, though he does feel kind of relieved that they're finally talking about it. "I love that word. It's my favorite word."  
  
"I can see that," Thomas says, and he grins. "Look uh, shit." He turns away from Craig and scratches the back of his head. He's always itching some part of himself. Craig shouldn't find that so attractive. "You can beat off if you want to," Thomas says. "I could, uh. I could go downstairs and get a snack or something. While you do it."

It's fairly amazing that Thomas isn't cursing between every other word, and Craig is touched, because this is how comfortable they are with each other. Thomas can give Craig permission to beat off in his room without getting triggered.  
  
"I'd rather you stayed," Craig says, because it will be easy enough to play that off as a joke if he has to. It fits their usual style of humor. Thomas looks at him, wide-eyed.  
  
"What, you're hoping I'll have a freak out while you jerk it?" Thomas says. "So you can beat off to my fucking Tourette's?"  
  
"It's not the Tourette's," Craig says, and whoa did he not mean to admit that. Thomas's eyes widen again.  
  
"You know I'm not gay," Thomas says, mumbling. "Cock - shit - ass!" He winces and groans.  
  
"You always say 'cock shit ass' after you tell a lie," Craig says, though he's only like sixty percent sure this is true. Thomas snarls at him.  
  
"What, do you keep notes about this?" he asks. Craig rolls his eyes.  
  
"Are you going to let me leave yet?" Craig asks. "Have I suitably pissed you off with my predilections?"  
  
"Don't say predilections."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"'Cause I don't know what that means!"  
  
"Oh, sorry, I forgot, you're too butch for words with more than two syllables." Craig is no longer sure where he's going with this, if he ever knew. He's still hard, and he wants to blow his load in Thomas face, wants to hear what sort of things he'd say while Craig's come hit his cheeks.  
  
"I'm not gay," Thomas says, still glowering. "But, well - shit! I don't know. Yeah, okay. I'd watch. If you wanted."  
  
"Whoa," Craig says.  
  
"Fucking - shit!" Thomas says. "I mean. If you even. Want that."  
  
"Did I not just tell you I did?"  
  
"Well - _mother of ass_ , Craig, what do you want from me?"  
  
"Oh, Christ," Craig says, his legs starting to give out. He leans against the door and slides down until he's seated on the floor, the jacket still pressed over his dick, which is throbbing with readiness now. "Don't ask me that."  
  
He doesn't even last long enough to get his dick out of his pants that first time, his comically long legs spread widely and his palm rubbing hard and frantic against the bulge at his crotch. Thomas is silent, watching, his lips clamped tightly together like he's determined not to fuel the flames. It's not needed - Craig comes like a rocket and moans, his head knocking back against the door as he fills his jeans with the hot, sticky mess that he wants to smear across Thomas's dirty mouth.  
  
So then it becomes a thing that they do. Thomas is quiet every time, and Craig doesn't mind at first, but eventually it starts to seem malicious. Like a tease. He has also not failed to notice that Thomas gets hard when he watches Craig touch himself.  
  
"What would it sound like if you consciously did dirty talk?" Craig asks one night when they're sitting close on Thomas's bed, Thomas playing some stupid game on his phone and Craig staring down at Thomas's crotch, wondering if his wang is thick and compact like the rest of him. He's thought about the way it must taste. Really fucking butch, probably, like sweat and unwashed denim, cheap cotton briefs. Craig wants his mouth all over this motherfucker.  
  
"Well, since you're already flashing your boner at me," Thomas says, eying the tent in Craig's sweatpants. It's Saturday night, their regular two person slumber party, and Craig is the one who gets bent out of shape when people accuse them of being gay together, because the rumors without the reality is the worst of both worlds. "I guess I could demonstrate," Thomas says, clicking his game off.

Thomas doesn't have a boner for guys or even for Craig himself, but he has a tremendous fucking hard-on for how much Craig wants him. He sighs and lets Craig survey his body in its current state of relaxation, the t-shirt he's wearing so thin that Craig can see his fat, soft nipples residing beneath it. Craig licks his lips, and Thomas laughs, high-pitched and a little nervous-sounding.  
  
"You are so hard up for it," Thomas says. "Okay, ready?"  
  
"Ready for what?"  
  
"The dirty talk demonstration!"  
  
"Oh, God, yeah." Craig closes his eyes and slumps down further onto Thomas's pillows, fisting the blankets. "Ready."  
  
"Hmm, fuck, okay. I would be like - you're a little cocksucker, and I'm gonna come down your throat, and you're gonna swallow it, and - shit, fuck, I'm not good at this."  
  
"Yeah, you're really not," Craig says, opening his eyes. "Ironically."  
  
"Shit - ass - well, fuck, if you're so good at it-"  
  
Craig grabs the front of Thomas's shirt and pulls him down, just shy of touching their noses together. He makes his eyes knife-like and mean. The density of the gray there helps.  
  
"Every time something slides into my asshole I'll be crying inside because it's not your big, fat dick," Craig says. He smiles at the look on Thomas's face. "That's dirty talk, you fucking amateur."  
  
"Craig," Thomas says, and it sounds like one of his curses, knee-jerk and unintentional.  
  
"Oh, relax, I was being hypothetical." Craig folds his hands behind his head and spreads his legs a little. Thomas is straight and that's a fucking bummer, but Craig isn't the best looking guy in school for goddamn nothing. His t-shirt is thin, too, and his nipples are two tiny points, as delicately peaked as any girl's, and he's seen Thomas looking at them before.  
  
"Maybe I should suck your dick just to make sure I don't like it - _fucking ass_!" Thomas is breathing hard, already there, fish in a fucking barrel. Craig shrugs.  
  
"It's all yours," he says, spreading his thighs. Thomas whimpers a few curses under his breath and stares down at the tent Craig has pitched for him.  
  
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Craig asks. "You need me to take you out to dinner and kiss you first?"  
  
The kiss question being most pertinent. Thomas glances up like Craig is speaking another language and he's waiting to hear the translated version.  
  
"Take your pants off, fucker," Thomas says.  
  
"Make me," Craig says, and when Thomas rips his sweatpants down it is everything Craig can do not to blow his load then and there. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood and watches Thomas's eyes sneak down to his exposed cock. It's leaking for him, twitching when Craig spreads himself open even wider, trying not to show how hard his heart is beating by breathing in uncontrolled pants. It's kind of happening anyway. Thomas touches Craig's thigh, bracing his hand on it, and Craig rolls his hips up.  
  
"I've never seen one up close," Thomas says. There's a real blush under those acne scars, dark pink. "I mean, shit, ah - other than mine."

Craig laughs, jittery, falling apart. He wills Thomas not to notice that he's shaking. Thomas gives him a long study, like he's checking to make sure Craig isn't actually a mouse trap, and then he leans down to lick the inside of Craig's thigh. Craig moans and throws his head back, surrendering. Though he knows it will look stupid, probably super gay, he reaches up under his shirt to play with his nipples when Thomas licks his thigh again.  
  
"Shit -fucking asshole - Craig!" Thomas whines and braces both hands on the softest, most inner parts of Craig's thighs. "Why do you have to look so good?"  
  
"Ma-makes up for my personality."  
  
Thomas laughs and licks him again, up the underside of his cock this time. Craig sobs and nods, pinching his nipples hard. There's lots of sloppy licking, but Craig can't complain. He's never had a mouth on his cock before. When Thomas takes him in wholly, Craig gathers his thoughts away from _soft wet hot_ long enough to think, just for a quarter of a second, about all the words that have lived on that tongue, imagining he can feel the history of them vibrating around his cock, angry and filthy and how Thomas can't curse right now, can't make a fucking sound except for a little sigh that sounds like contentment, because Craig's is the cock in his mouth this time, and if Thomas is saying that word in his head, flinching, wanting to push it past his lips, he can't, because Craig's cock is plugging him up, and he'll have to derive any satisfaction he gets just from sucking it, no curses, no exclamations, just another soft little sigh.  
  
Craig has never felt less politically correct. He moans as he unloads into Thomas' mouth, pulling his hips back so that Thomas will slide off in time to catch the last drops on his lips and his chin while he swallows the rest down.  
  
"Cocksucker," Craig says, breathless. It's one of Thomas's special occasion words, usually shouted at full volume in a movie theater. Craig held Thomas's hand once, when he did a run-walk out into the lobby after shouting that word, and he didn't want to let go when they left the dark of the theater, but he did, because Thomas had endured enough humiliation for one night. They were thirteen.  
  
"Fuck," Thomas says, but it's just a regular _fuck_ , not an unintentional one. He puts his head on Craig's chest while he catches his breath. "Your heart," he says.  
  
"Like you didn't know," Craig says. He meant that it's pounding, like Thomas didn't know that it's been pounding this hard the whole time. Or something close to that.  
  
They sleep together in Thomas's bed that night, stunned and quiet, like people who are stranded in the middle of an ocean, clinging to the debris from an airplane crash. To each other, really, they're clinging to each other, and Craig dreams of the deserted island they might wash up on, the place where they would become something inevitable.  
  
But maybe they are, anyway, because in the morning Craig returns the favor and Thomas puts a sock in his mouth so he can moan his curses into it rather than alarming his mother.  
  
"This wasn't even a clean one, was it?" Craig says when he's licking Thomas's come from his lips, watching him pant. He removes the sock carefully, disturbed by the fact that he wants to lick up the ample spit Thomas left on it. He throws it onto the floor before he can do any such thing.  
  
"It was dirty," Thomas confirms, still panting. Craig shrugs.  
  
"I guess that's fitting," he says, and he kisses Thomas, too hungry for the taste of that filthy mouth to hesitate. It's like stale wool and last night's dinner and Craig's bitter come, and it's as perfect as any dirty thing will ever be.


	8. Bands of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU - Stan cares for Kyle after he's liberated from Emperor Cartman's harem.

When the Cartman Empire crumbles there is much rejoicing all across the land. Emperor Cartman was never interested in protecting his people, only in honoring himself and gathering riches for his personal fulfillment, and the damage done was great. Stan spent most of Cartman's reign in foreign lands, fighting wars for him, and as soon as he heard rumors of a military revolt he'd offered his full support. 

After Cartman was banished to Hellhole Canyon for his crimes, there was much work to be done to set things right again. Stan was appointed to a council that would help redistribute Cartman's mostly stolen wealth, and this was how he came to be overseeing the reassignments of Cartman's harem. Most of the women could be returned to their mothers, but those who'd been orphaned during the Dark Days would have to be married off among the victorious soldiers. Stan found the practice of making important decisions about the lives of others very grueling, and he wished he had not accepted his appointment to the council. 

Hardest of all was the single male member of the harem, a pale boy with red hair who seemed to be mute. Because he was not gelded, some of the others suggested that he be married off to a female member of the harem and given reparation money in order to set up a household with her. Stan considered this, but it didn't take him very long to determine that the red haired boy wouldn't be much of a husband. There was the fact that he couldn't speak, and he was listless, hollow-eyed, somewhat vacant. He seemed traumatized. 

"Can you write your name?" Stan asked him when they were alone together. Stan had brought the boy to his rooms after the women were distributed, not sure what else to do with him. The boy accepted the quill and parchment Stan offered. His handwriting was surprisingly elegant, and it hurt Stan to see this, because he was probably educated, kidnapped from a previously happy life. Stan had never known that Cartman's lust extended to boys. This one's name was Kyle, apparently. 

"How old are you, Kyle?" Stan asked. They were sitting near the balcony doors, golden afternoon light spilling into Stan's bedroom. Kyle wrote '20' on the paper, and Stan was surprised. "That's my age, too," he said. Kyle looked up at him and raised his eyebrows slightly. There was something sarcastic about it. "Can you write where you came from?" Stan asked. 

_Burned_ , Kyle wrote. _By Cartman_.

"I'm sorry," Stan said. "I lost my family to his mania, too. I was fighting in the eastern mountains when the sickness came, and when I returned they'd all succumbed to it. They'd been made too weak with hunger to fight it -- none of the soldiers' families were getting paid like Cartman had promised they would be when he sent us away." Stan cleared his throat, hearing the buried rage that had seeped into his tone. All of that was done now; Cartman was gone. "So there is nowhere you can go?" he asked.

Kyle shook his head. 

Stan sighed and sat back to examine Kyle more completely. Like most of the women, he wore a few remnants of Cartman's wrath: fingernail-shaped scars on his arms and bruises on his neck that were still fading. He was wearing a very basic white tunic, nothing like the glittering dresses Cartman had outfitted the women in. 

"Let me give you something to wear," Stan said. The tunic was not fitting for a man: it was short, revealing Kyle's pale thighs. As if he had sensed Stan noticing this, Kyle pulled the hem down slightly, staring at his lap.

Stan went to his trunk and pulled out some older clothes that might fit Kyle, selecting a dark blue tunic that Stan had worn to his thirteenth birthday celebration, specially made by his mother to celebrate his manhood. It was narrow, but long enough to fall to Kyle's knees. 

"Oh," Stan said when he turned to see Kyle pulling his tunic off. He wore nothing underneath but more scars and some neatly trimmed red pubic hair. "Here," Stan said, and he turned away after he'd handed him the tunic. He walked out onto the balcony while Kyle dressed, wondering if Kyle assumed that Stan had taken him as some kind of bride. Stan had spent most of his formative years having sex with his fellow soldiers, and while he found the practice convenient it often made him feel more lonely after the seed was spilt. Still, he didn't seek out women when he could as most of the others did. He wouldn't know where to start with a woman. 

He turned back toward the bedroom and saw that Kyle was curled up at the foot of his bed, wearing the blue tunic, seemingly asleep. Stan walked in and put his hands under Kyle's arms, dragging him up toward the pillows. 

"Shh," he said when Kyle woke and flailed a bit, startled. "I'm just putting you under the blankets, alright? It's been a long day, you should rest properly."

Kyle went limp and allowed Stan to tuck him into the bed. He kept his eyes on Stan's face the whole time, frowning slightly. He looked very tired, the bags under his eyes heavy and dark against his pale skin. 

"Sleep," Stan said. "It's okay. I'll be close by if you need anything. There's a pitcher of water here." Stan indicated the one that his servants always kept filled on bedside table. He gave Kyle's blanket-covered chest a soft pat and rose from the bed, content to stop thinking about the problem of what to do with Kyle for a few hours.

There was plenty of work to do that afternoon, but Stan did only that which could be accomplished from within his rooms, not wanting to leave Kyle alone. It wasn't that he didn't trust the boy not to rob him. He simply didn't want him to wake frightened and have no one there to calm him. 

Dusk fell over the kingdom, and Stan's servants appeared with wine and a light meal. He instructed them to bring more food.

"We have a guest," he said. "Someone who has been rescued from Cartman's -- staff. As you can imagine, he's weary from his years of service to that monster. You're to treat him with care." 

"Yes, sir!" said Butters. Craig just shrugged. They were so different from one another that Stan had been shocked to discover that they'd pushed their bed rolls together in their quarters, but he found the idea of having servants who were devoted to each other as well as to him very pleasing.

They returned with more food and Stan brought it into the bedroom himself. This was his favorite time of day, the breeze through the open balcony doors still warm and the sky orange-tinted, a kind of sleepy haze settling over the city. He found that he was glad to have company, and debated whether or not to allow Kyle to go on sleeping, ultimately deciding that it was more important for him to eat. He went to the bed and approached carefully. Kyle was curled up on his side with the blankets pulled up to his ear. Stan noticed that his cartilage was pierced and wondered what had become of his earring.

"Hey," he said, and he placed a gentle hand on Kyle's shoulder. "Wake up and have some dinner." 

Kyle woke with a flinch and scowled at Stan. Something about this made Stan laugh, and Kyle's expression softened quickly. Stan realized that he was frightened, probably accustomed to being laughed at unkindly. 

"Do you want to eat?" Stan asked. Kyle nodded. When Stan returned to the bed with the tray of food Kyle was sitting up, yawning. "Don't expect to eat in bed often," Stan said. "This is a special occasion." 

Kyle's eyes widened, and he remained frozen when Stan offered him a cup of wine. 

"Yes, you can stay," Stan said, though the offer made his heart beat faster with something like fear. "Until you're - stronger. I have plenty of space, and you're quiet. Here, have a drink, it's good for you."

Stan was very fond of wine and somewhat infamous amongst the soldiers for being able to out-drink most men. He drank three cups that night, and coaxed Kyle into finishing one. Kyle was more interested in the food, eating with his hands like a little animal. Stan found his mannerisms endearing, and he leaned closer as he began to get a little drunk. It took Kyle a few moments to notice Stan's advance, and when he did he went tense, pausing in mid-chew.

"I won't hurt you," Stan said, but it was quickly evident that just looking at Kyle with certain things on his mind was hurting him; he had begun to tremble hard enough that Stan could feel the mattress shake. Stan patted Kyle's back in what he hoped was a fatherly fashion and moved away, burping as he slid from the bed.

In his bath that night, Stan toyed with his cock, but he was too drunk to do much of anything with it. He dressed for sleep in a simple tunic and returned to the room. Kyle had put the dinner tray on the serving table and was back in the bed, hunched up with his knees pulled to his chest. He was jittery, watching Stan's every move as he crossed the room. 

“I'm done with the bath water if you want it,” Stan said. “You can have privacy – I won't bother you.” He felt guilty about scaring Kyle earlier. When drunk, he often became affectionate. He'd only leaned closer because he'd wanted to hug his arm around Kyle's shoulders while he picked the fattiest pieces of shaved pork from the tray. “Here,” Stan said, going to the trunk again. “Let's find you something to sleep in.” 

“I sleep naked,” Kyle said, and his sudden ability to speak made the hairs on the back of Stan's neck prickle. Kyle stared at Stan as if his wide-eyed reaction to hearing Kyle's voice was annoying, then slipped from the bed and into the bathing chamber, letting the heavy curtain fall over the doorway. 

Despite Kyle's proclamation, Stan found one of his oldest, softest tunics and laid it out on the bed in case Kyle changed his mind and wanted something to wear. He was relieved that Kyle could speak after all, but also unnerved by the fact that he'd chosen that particular statement to show Stan that he had a voice. Stan drank a little more wine, listening to the sound of the water sloshing as Kyle cleaned himself. He got into bed, leaving the lamp lit so that Kyle would be able to find his way there after he emerged. 

When Kyle came out he wore nothing, not even a towel. Stan looked once and then quickly turned away, not wanting to intimidate him with a lingering gaze. He longed to look again, at the shining pink scars, the blush his scrubbing had left behind on his white skin, and the way his curls had darkened from the water. 

“Could you blow out the lamp?” Stan said when Kyle came to to the bed. Kyle did as he asked, and even the little puff of his breath was exhilarating. Stan understood now why he had been moved to bring Kyle back to his rooms. Without acknowledging it, he'd been fascinated by Kyle from the moment he found him crouched at the back of the harem. “What are you doing?” Stan asked when Kyle settled at the end of the bed. Kyle said nothing, but leaned up onto his elbow and watched Stan as if awaiting further instruction. His skin gleamed in the moonlight, and the smell of Stan's familiar soap was arousing on Kyle's body. “Come up and get a pillow,” Stan said. “You don't have to sleep down there.”

Kyle hesitated for a moment, then took up a place on the other side of the mattress, as far from Stan as possible without falling off the bed. Stan hadn't expected Kyle to cuddle up to him, but he felt a little rejected by Kyle's angry posture, his back turned on Stan.

“Would you like to talk?” Stan asked. “You must have questions about – about what I expect of you.”

Kyle said nothing. Stan rolled away and allowed him to pretend to sleep. 

*

In the morning, Stan woke early with a sense of unease. Kyle was as he had been when Stan fell asleep: curled in on himself tightly on the other side of the bed, his back to Stan. The morning birds were shrieking at the sunrise, but Kyle slept through that and through Stan's dressing for duties. Stan scraped his breastplate across his dressing table nosily before strapping it on, hoping that Kyle would wake, but finally he had to go to the bed and touch Kyle's shoulder.

“I'm going to meet with the council,” Stan said when Kyle blinked up at him. “I'll probably be gone for most of the day. Butters and Craig will be about if you need anything. Don't be afraid of Craig, he's surly to everyone but he's not a bad man.” Stan paused, staring down at Kyle's grim expression. “You know you don't have to stay here with me,” he said. “You're free to leave if you like.”

“And go where?” Kyle asked, his voice croaky from sleep. Stan had no answer for him. Kyle rolled away, tucking his face to the pillow again.

Stan was preoccupied with thoughts of Kyle during the day, ranging from pity to annoyance. Kyle could at least show a bit of gratitude for the kindness Stan had shown him, and if he was worried that Stan would expect to use him the way Cartman had he could have asked about it when Stan gave him the opportunity. Stan had to remind himself that Kyle had been through something he could scarcely fathom. When Stan was first conscripted he was very naive about leaving himself vulnerable to older soldiers, and being forced had been terrible. He suspected it would have been worse without the opportunity to put a knife through his attackers' necks in revenge. 

He returned to his rooms at dusk, carrying a pot of dark honey that he'd picked up at the market. Kyle had dipped his cheese and bread into the honey provided with the previous night's meal, eating everything with big globs of the stuff. Now he would have plenty for tonight, too. 

In the entrance hall, Craig removed Stan's breastplate and boot guards while Butters brought him a glass of wine. There was no sign of Kyle.

“Has he left the bedroom?” Stan asked. His heart sunk when he realized that Kyle might have left entirely.

“He has not,” Craig said. “We brought him lunch. He ate it without thanking us.”

“Now, Craig,” Butters said. “He doesn't have to thank us. Kyle is our master now, too. Is – isn't he?” Butters glanced at Stan, pressing his fists together uncertainly. 

“Well,” Stan said. “Temporarily, I suppose, but I want to hear about it if he abuses you.” 

“You will,” Craig said.

Stan made a point to thank them after he'd given them his orders for dinner. He supposed he often didn't think to, but they gave good service and caused him no trouble, and he was grateful for them. He brushed aside the curtain that hung over his bedroom doorway. He'd been expecting to see Kyle still in the bed, but not in the manner that he found him: naked and on his hands and knees, his ass oiled and ready, pointed toward the door as he peeked back at Stan shyly.

“Ah,” Stan said, turning around, and then back to the bed. “What are you doing?”

Kyle flinched, his back arching. “I thought,” he said. 

“No, no – you don't have to.” Stan was very hot inside his clothes, his cock growing stiff. “That's – I should have said so, ah – that's not what – you don't have to greet me like this when I c-come back, you can do as you please.” 

Kyle put his ass down on the bed, sinking to his knees and tucking his hands between them. His cock was soft and his face was very red. 

“Don't tell me to do as I please,” he said. He leapt off the bed, padded into the bathing chamber and tossed the curtain over the doorway with an angry flair that made Stan wonder if he'd been a prince before Cartman took him. 

Stan went out onto the balcony to grab his cock and spill his aching balls into one of the planters. He was breathless afterward, flustered. Most of his conquests had been scrambling fucks in the dark of a battlefield tent. He'd never seen someone present himself that way. 

Back inside the bedroom, he nervously awaited Kyle's reappearance. He poured himself some wine and listened for sounds from within the bathroom, hoping that Kyle wasn't weeping. Kyle came out when Stan was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, feeling like he was intruding in someone else's chambers. Kyle was wearing the blue tunic, his face still red. He avoided Stan's eyes and walked out onto the balcony. Stan followed him, afraid he might try to leap off of the stone railing. 

“It's a good view, yeah?” Stan asked. Kyle said nothing, observing the kingdom with a stoic stare. “Listen,” Stan said after a few moments of heavy silence, the wind that crossed the balcony tousling Kyle's curls. “You don't have to feel badly about – that. I don't blame you for expecting, ah. I should have been clearer last night. I only want you to stay here while you need to. You're not some conquest that I've won from Cartman. You're – a refugee. You deserve refuge.” 

Kyle continued to stare at the horizon in silence. Stan drank from his cup of wine, then offered it to Kyle. When Kyle shook his head at it, Stan dug the little pot of honey from his pocket and held it out. 

“You like this?” Stan asked. Kyle took the jar from him examined it. The corner of his mouth quirked, not quite a smile.

“Yes,” he said, softly.

They had flaky, meat-filled pastries that night, a delicately spiced recipe that Butters was especially good at and which, Stan had guessed, would go very well with the honey. It seemed to: Kyle finished half the jar and two pastries. 

“Would you like the water first tonight?” Stan asked after Craig and Butters had left for the evening, the bath filled and the dinner plates cleared. Kyle was sitting on the bed, staring at Stan like he was insane.

“Who do you think I am?” Kyle asked. 

“What do you mean?”

Kyle just shook his head and flopped back onto the bed, looking away from Stan and resting his hands on his stomach.

“Fine,” Stan said. “I'll go first, then. Forgive me for offending you, your majesty. I was trying to be hospitable.” 

He had never been so angry while taking a bath, but when he emerged he was glad for the sight of Kyle, who looked at Stan sheepishly as he headed toward the bath himself. Stan wasn't sure what to make of the fact that Kyle left the curtain hanging halfway open while he bathed. He resisted the urge to peek. Kyle emerged after a long soak, wrapped into a towel. Stan felt embarrassed when their eyes met, and had to remind himself that he'd done nothing wrong. 

"Did you have enough to eat?" Stan asked, stupidly, because he didn't know what else to say and didn't like the quiet. Kyle nodded. He slipped into the bed, letting the towel fall away at the last moment, giving Stan the briefest glimpse of his pale skin. Stan saw it only out of the corner of his eye. "Shall I put the lamp out?" he asked. 

"Do you have anything to read?" Kyle asked. He was deep under the blankets, his chin poking out. 

"Oh, yes!" Glad for the request, Stan bound out of bed and went for his trunk. "Buried under here, I've got a few books, the only ones we had in my family. Cartman has a library, and we're dividing the contents. I can bring more – what do you like to read?"

Kyle made a face, and Stan wondered if this was too personal a question. He was holding his books to his chest, happy for the excuse to revisit them. They were precious family heirlooms with hand-painted illustrations. 

"Anything but histories," Kyle said. "Nothing true. Only fantasies. I'm sure – I know Cartman has plenty of those."

"Fantasies, yes, I'll bring some." Stan felt clumsy as he made his way back to the bed, glad that he hadn't put out the lamp yet. "These are both epics, with magic and returns from the dead and that sort of thing. Would you like me – I could read to you?"

"Alright," Kyle said, and he moved a little closer, still two feet away. 

Stan was only halfway through the first chapter when Kyle drifted to sleep. He was sweet-looking when he slept, his arms and legs spread out greedily under the blankets, as if he was determined to occupy as mush space as possible. Stan wanted to kiss his face, but he knew it would not be welcome. He put out the lamp and rested the book on the bedside table, was quickly asleep himself.

There was peace in the kingdom, and Stan felt it in his personal life like never before, no longer anticipating which far-flung country he'd be sent to by Cartman to conquer, long marches to battle and lonely nights sleeping in tents. He still didn't relish his duties on the council, but he was a bit proud of himself for being one of its youngest members, a representative for the warrior contingent. He tried to be fair, and began to ask Kyle for his advice on council matters. Kyle had no shortage of opinions, and Stan was glad for it. 

"I could help you with that," Kyle said one evening when Stan was organizing his papers after a long day spent debating how the water supply system should be regulated to prevent another sickness from flooding the kingdom. 

"Yes?" Stan said, looking up. Kyle was wearing a tunic that Stan had commissioned a tailor to make specially for him, well-fitted, olive green like his eyes. "Please do," Stan said when Kyle hung back nervously. "I detest record-keeping."

"Your system is not efficient," Kyle said. He walked to Stan's desk and took the quill from his hand. "See, this practice of writing your notes like an essay, it's messy and hard to compare data. If you made a chart, like this—" He sat in Stan's lap as if he was merely a cushion on the chair, and drew lines on the parchment, then more lines intersecting those, labeling each column. Kyle's attention was focused wholly on his chart, but Stan could hardly follow along, more interested in the boyish curve of Kyle's back as he bent over the papers, and the way the tip of his tongue poked out between his lips while he worked. During his weeks in Stan's rooms Kyle's rump had grown softer, more round, and it felt so good on Stan's thighs that he worried he would become erect as Kyle wiggled about, showing Stan how to transplant his figures into the chart.

"See?" Kyle said, and he turned to Stan, his cheeks going pink when he saw how close their faces were. 

"Yes," Stan said. Kyle put the quill down and stood.

"Well," he said, his hands going to his rear, smoothing the tunic over it. "Are we eating tonight or not?"

They did eat that night, and Kyle was quiet. Stan overcompensated by talking a lot, telling Kyle about life in the army. He tried not to complain too much, knowing that Kyle's service to Cartman had been a much harder trial. 

"I've always wanted to learn how to shoot an arrow," Kyle said. "Not at another man, really, but at a target. I like the idea of wielding precision." 

"I'm so glad you're talking," Stan said, realizing only after he'd said so that he was drunk. He blanched with embarrassment, and Kyle grinned. 

"Are you so lonely that even a crusty old whore seems like good company?" Kyle said, the mirth draining from his eyes. 

"You're not old, or crusty, and you're no whore," Stan said. He was suddenly glad he'd had a fourth cup of wine, glad he'd spoken sharply on this point, and glad for the way it made Kyle's eyes change. 

"It's just that I've never been admired by someone who didn't grab me by the throat and claim me," Kyle said. "That is, by anyone but him." He looked down at his bread, which he'd dragged through the puddle of honey on his plate five times. "I'm sorry," he said, mumbling.

"Don't be sorry," Stan said, and he had to stop himself from touching Kyle's wrist. He didn't want him to feel that he'd been grabbed ever again. "I've had – I've been – I know that it's terrible." Stan didn't want to have to elaborate, to spare his pride and Kyle's, and when Kyle looked up at him with nothing shading the full green of his eyes, Stan knew he'd been understood.

"In the army?" Kyle said, speaking softly. Stan nodded.

"I killed them," Stan said, staring down at his vegetable mash. "I know – where Cartman is, if you want. To."

"No, no," Kyle said quickly, shaking his head. "I don't ever want to lay eyes upon him again, he's not – he's nothing." Kyle put his hand on Stan's wrist, and he smiled when Stan looked up at him. "I feel," he said, but he trailed off there.

"I know," Stan said, only hoping that he did. He felt that he was meant to meet Kyle, even in this imperfect circumstance, and that they would save each other from the horrors of the past somehow. 

"I think I'll take the bath first tonight," Kyle said, and something about this statement made Stan's cock respond with a twitch, as if Kyle had accepted some more intimate invitation. Stan nodded. 

"Yes," he said, and Kyle grinned. "What?" Stan asked.

"Nothing." Kyle stood and adjusted his tunic, preening a little. "I like it when you say that – 'yes.' You've very sincere." 

"I try to be," Stan said.

"That puts you ahead of most people," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's cheek before heading toward the bathing chamber. Stan felt the glow of his touch after he'd gone, and he ran his fingers over his cheek, wanting more of it. 

When Kyle was through with his bath he emerged in a towel and smiled at Stan, who was now working on a fifth glass of wine. He thought this was probably unwise, but he was nervous and unsure, and when this was the case his hand went endlessly to the wine pitcher. Knowing that he was not completely himself, he was careful to avoid touching Kyle's hip on his way to the bathing chamber, not wanting to scare him like he had that first night. 

"I'm going to sit out on the balcony," Kyle said. "The air is so fragrant."

"It's the festivals," Stan said. "The bakers are making bread, and the brewers are bottling their ale – I love this time of year." 

"Well." Kyle glanced back at Stan, walking on tiptoes toward the balcony. "I'll be out there." 

"Yes," Stan said, theatrically, and Kyle laughed.

Stan touched himself in the bath, too drunk to get properly hard or finish, but it wasn't frustrating, just aimless. He was almost glad not to ruin the moment with something as cheap as an orgasm, or at least as cheap as the ones he'd had previously had by his own hand or in the fists of random friends who were feeling sympathetic on the night before battle. He was glad to climb out of the cooling bath water, imagining that he could smell Kyle in it, glad to have gone second. He dried off and put on his nighttime tunic, rubbing the towel through his hair as he reentered the bedroom. Kyle was still on the balcony, sitting in Stan's favorite chaise with his knees hugged to his chest, the bath towel still around his waist. 

"It's a pretty night," Stan said, lingering close, afraid to try to sit there, too, though Kyle had so confidently perched in his lap. Kyle looked at him, tipping his chin up in a way that made him seem very young and unafraid, unhurt. 

"I never thought this place could be pretty," Kyle said. "It's not my country." 

"It wasn't mine, either, for so long," Stan said. "I think – I hope we can make it ours, now that he's gone."

"Carry me to bed," Kyle said, his arms outstretched, and Stan wondered if Kyle had been at the wine during his bath. Though he was dozy himself, he knew he could carry Kyle easily, and he did, all the way to the bed, struggling not to bury his nose in Kyle's curls and breathe in the soaped-up smell of them. 

"Were you a prince?" Stan asked as he tucked Kyle under the blankets, and he instantly regretted the question. It would ruin the moment, a reminder of what Kyle had lost. 

"No," Kyle said. He didn't seem particularly shaken. "You're the only one who has ever treated me like this."

"Like – what?"

Kyle shrugged. "Like someone who deserves to rest," he said, and Stan's eyes stung. He had to turn away, and he changed into the tunic he slept in as an excuse. When he turned back to the bed, Kyle leaned up onto his elbow and blew the lamp out.

"Thank you," Stan said. He climbed in on his side of the bed, and smiled when Kyle scooted closer, until he was just six or seven inches away. 

"I'm afraid," Kyle said, whispering.

"I won't hurt you," Stan said. "I won't even, I won't—"

"I know," Kyle said. "And I'm afraid something will come along to spoil that. To spoil – this, a man who doesn't want to hurt me. Someone who wants to help." 

"If something comes," Stan said, "I'll kill it." 

"You're accustomed to killing bad things."

"Yes," Stan said, emphatically. "I thought I knew my reasons for killing in the name of ending Cartman's reign, but I didn't know until now that—"

"What?" Kyle said when Stan hesitated, afraid the wine was making him admit too much.

"That you were one of my reasons," he said, because Kyle deserved to hear it.

"Oh," Kyle said. He moved closer, until Stan could smell the honey on his breath. "Well," Kyle said. He rubbed his face against the pillow, adjusting for sleep. "Goodnight." 

"Sleep well," Stan said. "That's all I wish for, these days. For my – for Kyle to sleep well."

"You've had some drinks," Kyle said – fondly, Stan thought. He closed his eyes and smiled when Kyle touched the stubble on his cheek. 

"But it's never been like this," Stan said, mumbling, his consciousness fading.

"I know," Kyle said, and Stan slept. 

He woke late the next morning, feeling trampled. Kyle was awake at his side, sitting up on his elbow and peering down at him with concern. 

"Shit," Stan mumbled, running his hand over his face. His head was pounding, and the brilliant sunlight hurt. They'd left the balcony doors open. 

"What's the matter?" Kyle asked. "You're sick? You look clammy, and you slept so long. Oh, God, I've jinxed you just by saying I want to keep you!" 

"Shh, it's alright," Stan said. He closed his eyes and reached for Kyle blindly, cupping his shoulder. "I just had too much wine. Haven't you ever seen someone with a bad head after a night of drinking?"

"I suppose," Kyle said, and he touched the back of his hand to Stan's cheek. "But you're so warm. They haven't drained the bath from last night, and it will be cool – do you want to get in? Or I could have them draw a fresh one?"

"Mhm, just give me a moment," Stan said. "Maybe – if you could fetch a wash rag from the bath, dip it in the water?" 

"Yes – of course!" Kyle dashed off. He returned with a damp rag and wiped Stan's face with it before settling it on his forehead. Stan rolled onto his back with a groan, feeling miserably ill but also content, with Kyle hovering over him in a minor panic. "Some water?" Kyle said, reaching over him for the pitcher. 

"Thank you." Stan sat up just enough to drink from the cup Kyle brought to his lips. It had been a long time since he'd been cared for like this. "Could you shut the curtains?" Stan asked. 

They spent the afternoon in the dark of the bedroom, and Stan had Craig send word that he had a minor illness and would not be reporting to the council until tomorrow. Kyle flit about the room trying to make things right for him: a fresh cloth on his forehead, lukewarm broth for breakfast, whispers to the servants about changing the bath water and adding herbal remedies. Stan was feeling much better after drinking a full pitcher of water, but he laid about like an invalid anyway, because Kyle was stretched out at his side, pressing encouraging little kisses to Stan's closed eyelids and running his fingers through Stan's hair. 

"Please don't die," Kyle said after he'd helped Stan into the bath. Kyle was kneeling on the floor beside the tub while Stan reclined in the herb-scented water. 

"I'm not dying," Stan said. 

"I know," Kyle said, and he touched Stan's wet arm, which rested on the rim of the tub. "I meant, ever."

"Are you always so anxious?"

"Only when I have something precious to lose," Kyle said. "I'd nearly forgotten what that felt like. Shall I wash your back?"

Stan leaned forward so that Kyle could, and he allowed Kyle to wash his shoulders and chest, too. He was hard under the water, wondering how low Kyle's hands would venture. His eyes had dropped to Stan's lap more than once. 

"Am I really precious to you?" Stan asked as Kyle washed his hair. "Or did you mean – this refuge?"

"You are my refuge," Kyle said. "I – you've promised a lot of things, but anyone could. You make me feel safe." 

"Kiss me?" Stan said. Kyle looked down, eyelashes fanning his cheeks, and Stan worried that he'd ruined everything. Kyle was smiling when he raised his eyes to Stan's again, trying not to laugh. "What?" Stan said.

"Your hair," Kyle said, and Stan remembered that it was still wild and foamy with soap suds. He opened his mouth to apologize for this, but Kyle leaned forward to kiss him before he could, mostly catching Stan's lower lip. He was pink-cheeked when he pulled back, looking so serious that Stan was afraid that he hadn't liked it. "Don't lose your patience with me now that you know I want you," Kyle said, and Stan felt every breath of those words against his lips, their faces still close. 

"Kyle, I am at your mercy," Stan said. "And glad to be," he added, quickly. Kyle smirked and reached for the bucket, filled it with water and dumped it over Stan's head until the suds were washed from his hair. 

"I feel like I must have gotten a bad deal from some witch," Kyle said. "Like in a story – like I wished for the best man in this kingdom but had to endure the worst one first. That was the trick she played on me. Witches are always doing things like that, in stories." 

"I am not the best man in the kingdom," Stan said. 

"For me you are," Kyle said. "I'm not talking all-purpose. I'm talking just for me, Stan. You see?"

"Yes," Stan said, and he wondered if Kyle would grin like that every time he said that word and meant it. He hoped so.

They opened the curtains when the sun was not so harsh, evening approaching. Stan dozed with his head on Kyle's shoulder while Kyle read to him. Kyle changed his voice for each character when he read the dialogue, something Stan's father had done. Stan wanted to ask for another kiss. He felt he'd been given a reprieve from the death sentence of living every day without this, without Kyle.

That night, they cemented their routine of retiring to the balcony after their baths. Kyle insisted that Stan go first, and Stan thought this was only because he was still thinking of Stan as a pitiable invalid, but when Kyle emerged Stan understood why he had wanted to take the second bath. He was wearing the tunic Stan usually slept in, and Stan was stretched out on the chaise with only his towel covering his crotch. Kyle dropped down onto him, sighing as he settled against Stan's chest, his face pressed to Stan's neck. He'd taken the second bath because he wanted to fall onto Stan when he was done. Shaken by gratitude, Stan rested a hand on the small of Kyle's back. 

"I don't mean to steal this," Kyle said, tugging at the collar of the tunic. "I just felt a bit vulnerable out here in only a towel."

"Please, please," Stan said, "Take anything I have and wear it as armor." 

Stan thought they might at least kiss under the blankets when they retired to the bed, but Kyle turned his back on him. It wasn't bad: he settled himself against Stan as he did, letting Stan curve around him like a rind. Kyle had stripped the tunic off and they were both naked. Stan wasn't sure what Kyle's intentions were when he wiggled back against him, his tailbone rubbing Stan's erection. He'd been hard since he'd held Kyle on the balcony. 

"Yours is big," Kyle said, addressing the elephant at court. 

"I hope—" Stan said, not sure what he'd meant to say next. That he hoped Kyle found his cock suitable? 

"Yes, I know," Kyle said. "Let me work up to that in stages. Think of my ass as a wild animal that must be tamed. Taught to trust, perhaps, is a better way to put it."

"Yes, that is better," Stan said, and he pet Kyle's hair, which was also like a wild animal. "Craig cuts hair, you know." 

"He doesn't like me," Kyle said.

"Everyone thinks so at first. Butters used to cry when Craig looked at him too deliberately. But now they're wrapped up together like us, in the servants' quarters. Give him a chance."

"He'll destroy my hair on purpose." 

"No, no. He only seems like he will. Trust me." 

Kyle hummed disagreeably, but the next day Stan returned from his duties to find Kyle's curls trimmed with care. Kyle was at Stan's desk, translating Stan's messy notes on grain storage into neat tables of data. 

"You look nice," Stan said, bending down to kiss the top of Kyle's hair. 

"Well, he was rude to me," Kyle said, and he ran his hand through his hair, clipped bits of red spraying out. "But he didn't disfigure me." 

That night, Kyle nibbled at Stan's neck while they were on the balcony together, his freshly shorn hair tickling Stan's jaw. 

"The air's getting cooler already," Stan said when a strong wind blew across the balcony.

"So hold me closer," Kyle said, and Stan flushed like a nervous boy, his arms winding around Kyle. He tugged Kyle more snugly against his chest, and felt Kyle's grin against his throat.

Stan's favorite pastime was interacting with Kyle on almost any level – even watching him pick gristle from his teeth at dinner – and his second was bringing back gifts. He brought Kyle books from the conquered library, a child-sized bow and arrow that he could practice on in the fields on days when Stan was free from council duties, and a set of gleaming arm bands from the best goldsmith in the fortress village. The last gift proved controversial. 

"What's this?" Kyle said. "Adornments for your – bedmate?"

"They're not for bed," Stan said, confused. The arm bands were coiled into spirals, delicate but well-made, and Stan had thought of Kyle as soon as he saw them, how they would cling to the pale flesh on Kyle's arms that grew plumper every day, softer under Stan's fingertips. "You'd wear them – whenever you like. They're meant to, ah. They're meant for someone beautiful." He dared to meet Kyle's eyes, which were still angry. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." 

"I know you didn't," Kyle said, and he took the armbands, turning away from Stan. "You want me to dress for you like this?"

"No, I only meant to honor you, if you hate them I'll get rid of them—"

"Don't do that," Kyle said, walking further from him. He had hugged the armbands to his chest. "Most days I wake wanting to be your boy this way. With my adornments, waiting for your hands to slide over me. I think I've been transformed into – something. I can't decide if he did it or if you did, is the trouble." 

"Forgive me," Stan said, beginning to weep. Kyle turned to him, frowning. 

"But I want you to transform me," Kyle said. "You, as long as it's _you_. Don't cry."

Stan drank too much wine that night, and later shed more tears. Kyle shushed him on the balcony, the wind cold enough now that they had a blanket wrapped around them, both of them naked beneath it. 

"Look how well you treat me," Kyle said, whispering this into Stan's mouth. He took Stan's hand and brought it to his cock. Stan gasped when he felt that it was hard, and Kyle laughed. "I'm not – you don't have to drape me in gold. I want to be treated like this, like someone who wants as much as he's wanted." 

"I just thought they would look good against your skin," Stan said. Kyle hummed sweetly and kissed him, slipping his tongue into Stan's mouth. It was happening more and more often, and never failed to make unspilt seed pool at the head of Stan's cock. 

"You look good against my skin," Kyle said. He brought Stan's hand around to the crack of his ass, guiding his fingers into the heat there. "You've taken other boys," he said, his eyes dark and locked on Stan's.

"Men," Stan said. "The ones I fought beside. We laughed together and drank too much and it was not – taking. We gave, I think. No, I know that we did. And you're no boy. You're the same age as me." 

"You know what I mean," Kyle said, and Stan did.

There was no taking that night, but Stan left his fingers where Kyle had put them, stroking and teasing him, waiting for him to tense. Instead, Kyle melted, nudging Stan's chin with his nose and pushing back against his hand. 

"To bed?" Stan whispered after they had been at this for some time. He was hoping Kyle would say 'no, to the oil.'

"Yes," Kyle said, still rubbing his cock on Stan's stomach. “Carry me."

Stan did, and once there they tussled like boys who were angry with each other, or at least competing in their lust, grunting into each other's mouths as they kissed and rubbed together. Stan came first, crying out with something like fear, not sure it was allowed. Kyle moaned, kissed him deeply, then followed him without shame, fucking himself onto Stan's thigh until he'd spilled.

"Yes, that's—" Kyle said, nodding, his forehead pressed to Stan's, sweaty and warm. Stan could not find words. "I'm glad to, to," Kyle tried to say. "I hope you know that I need this, too."

"I pray that you need me," Stan said, perhaps misunderstanding him, and he wept again, still drunk.

"Oh, shh." Kyle pet him, kissed him. "Don't fret."

"I feel just as you do, as if something will take you from me, as if I can't possibly keep this."

"I'll kill anything that comes," Kyle said, whispering this into Stan's ear.

Stan fell asleep believing this, still terrified. In the morning he felt hungover, but it wasn't quite the wine that had done it. He rolled Kyle toward him gently, afraid to be rejected, and Kyle's whole body seemed to light with his smile. Stan could feel it like energy generated under their blankets. 

"Every time I open my eyes and it's you reaching for me," Kyle said. He didn't need to continue. 

They kissed, and Stan was only half hard, mostly from having slept. He wanted so many things from Kyle, and plenty of them were sexual, to do with gratification and the peace afterward when they lay together, but there were other things, too. There was this, lazy kissing, their legs rubbing together under clean sheets. There was the contentment that rested high and warm in his chest as he went about his day knowing that Kyle was safe in his rooms, aiming his bow at the feather-filled target Stan had made for him, watching the city from above as another day unfurled below him, and making notes for Stan on intricacies of his work that Stan would never have had insight enough to notice himself. Stan could stop and think: _Kyle exists_ , and just that would make his heart inflate.

Each night grew cooler, and each night Kyle brought Stan's hand to his rear as they huddled naked under blankets on the balcony, freshly bathed. They would both flush with heat while Stan worked Kyle open with oil-dipped fingers, and the cool wind felt good on Stan's cheeks as Kyle gasped and clenched around him. On the night when Kyle slapped his palm into the dish of oil and brought his hand to Stan's cock, Stan hardly knew what was happening until Kyle was perched over him, sinking down slowly. 

"Are you sure?" Stan asked, whispering. His heart was wild, hands shaking on Kyle's waist.

"Yes," Kyle said, and he seemed to be imitating Stan's pronunciation of that word. His smile drained away as he sunk down lower, taking Stan into him, squeezing Stan's shoulders as his lips parted slowly. Stan felt the slick press of heat all around him like a wave that would knock him backward; it was overwhelming. He'd loved some of his brothers in arms and had been grateful for their company in bed, but it had been nothing like this. When Kyle had lowered himself completely Stan hugged him close, rubbing his trembling back. 

"Can we stay like this for a moment?" Stan asked, one hand sliding up into Kyle's curls. 

"Yes," Kyle said, his voice very small. "I want to."

They stayed that way for many moments, sighing and clutching at each other, both of them laughing a little as Kyle toyed idly with Stan's nipples. Kyle began to roll his hips just slightly when Stan kissed him, and he dropped his head back as his pace increased, his eyes closed, lashes trembling. Stan was afraid to speak, his climax already rushing at him. Kyle moaned, pressing his cheek to Stan's as he began to ride him harder. 

"I never knew it could be like this," Kyle said, his voice breaking, and Stan struggled not to surge into him more deeply as he came. He whimpered from the effort and Kyle made a sympathetic sound, kissing Stan's face. They were both in tears by the time Kyle had spilled himself onto Stan's chest.

"I'm sorry," Stan said, sniffling. "I meant to ask if it was alright to finish. Inside." 

"It's alright," Kyle said. Stan had never seen him cry, and he clearly wasn't comfortable with it, trying to wipe his eyes clear. "I like having you inside me. Your fingers, your cock, your seed, whatever. It's -- a revelation, you know? How good this feels."

"Yes," Stan said. Kyle stood up on his knees and Stan held his elbows as he pulled off, leaking everywhere at once. He flopped onto Stan's chest again and sighed, letting Stan tuck the blankets around him more firmly. 

"We should go in, to bed," Kyle said. He sounded sleepy, calm; Stan couldn't stop kissing his curls. "We'll catch ill in this cold." 

"I'll miss this in the winter," Stan said. "Sitting outside with you."

"Yes, me too." Kyle sat up and smiled at him. "But we can make a little cave together in the bed and spend the winter there. Can't we?"

"Of course," Stan said, blinking more tears. Kyle dried Stan's cheeks with his thumbs, still smiling faintly, as if he was envisioning their fortress of blankets and pillows, and the knit tunics they would push out of the way to access each other's skin. Stan had never looked forward to winter before.

He had Craig send his regards to the council the following morning, telling them he had a personal errand to attend to. That errand was Kyle, and Stan didn't leave him for a moment, watching over him as if he was recovering from an injury or newly pregnant. Kyle seemed fine but did not dismiss the attention. They took their bath together that night, in steaming water, and went to the bed when they were done. Kyle wanted Stan inside him again, and warned him to be careful. 

"I'm a little sore," Kyle said, lying on his back, stretched out for Stan with his arms and legs spread open.

"Perhaps we should wait, then," Stan said. "Or -- you could be in me, this time." 

Kyle wrinkled his nose. "Do you want that?" he asked. 

"Well." He'd never let any of his partners try it. There were too many bad memories of the times when it was unasked for. 

"The point is that I want that feeling again," Kyle said, pulling Stan down onto him. "Like last night. I so loved it. I even love that you've made me sore. It's sort of special, I think, like a badge. Just be careful going in, that's all."

Stan lasted a bit longer this time, mindful of moving slowly. Kyle made soft noises, his lips pressed together and his legs tight against Stan's sides. He smiled and nodded each time Stan stopped to ask if he was alright.

"You're so beautiful," Kyle said afterward, when Stan was slumped against the mattress, curled into Kyle's arms, content to be exhausted. 

"What?" Stan said, and he laughed. 

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that?" Kyle asked, carding his fingers through Stan's hair. "Maybe it's horrible to admit this, but when you first brought me here I thought, at least this one is handsome." 

"That is a little horrible, Kyle." 

"Well, what did I know? Anyway, it was more than that. Not just that you had good features. It was warmth, I think. In your eyes, in the way you looked at me."

"You were so frightened," Stan said. He drew Kyle down to him, tucking him to his chest. "And I was no help. I should have said at once that I didn't mean to hurt you." 

"That afternoon," Kyle said, and Stan knew immediately which one he was referring to, "When you came back to find me -- like that. What you must have thought. That I was a born whore, that I--"

"No, no, I never thought that." 

"I didn't know the customs when he brought me here," Kyle said. "I didn't know which were his and which were normal."

"Mhm." Stan felt a spike of stale hatred in his chest at the thought of Cartman's personal customs. "Well, it only made me feel protective of you. Though, also, I went outside to bring myself off into the roses." 

"Oh, I'm flattered," Kyle said. "I heard once that was good for the blooms, actually."

"You didn't really."

"No, not really," Kyle said, and he looked up at Stan, grinning. His expression became more serious as Stan held his gaze, nuzzling at him. "Sometimes I think you would give me your name," Kyle said. "If you could." 

"I would not hesitate," Stan said. "If that would make you happy." 

"Marsh," Kyle said, pronouncing it with a dramatic flair that was almost sarcastic. "Very different from my family name. I can't decide if it sounds strong or pathetic, like a bog." 

"Hey," Stan said, tickling his fingers up Kyle's side. Kyle laughed and squirmed until he relented. 

"There are places where it's allowed," Kyle said, his eyes lowered. "Maybe not as grand as this place, but. There are places." 

"It's allowed here as often as not," Stan said, confused. "A man's family might complain that he won't give them an heir without a wife, but I have no one left to make that complaint."

"It's not as if I'm suggesting we live elsewhere," Kyle said, and he laughed strangely. Stan tucked himself to Kyle's back when he rolled away, wondering if he'd said the wrong thing. He wondered, too, if Kyle would want to leave this kingdom someday. It was where he had been a prisoner, after all.

In the winter the council business was less time consuming, and Stan was often instructed to report to the base camp at the castle's wall to train new soldiers. It was a bitterly cold season, and Stan was always in a hurry to finish his duties, eager to get home to Kyle, who would be wrapped in furs and reading, waiting for Stan to join him in the warmth he'd cocooned himself in. Stan had bought a full winter wardrobe for Kyle, including a fuzzy hat that covered his ears and made him look unbearably adorable, Stan thought. He had also brought Kyle a proper bow and arrow, and he was trying to teach him to hunt. Kyle was extremely adept with his aim, but he talked too much and scared the prey away, something Stan often didn't mind. He preferred to send Craig to the butcher for meat, and his hunts with Kyle were really just excuses to watch Kyle's cheeks turn pink in the wind and thaw him out afterward in a hot bath.

They were approaching the darkest days of the winter when Stan received orders to march with the army to the north sea, where some villages that supplied the kingdom with granite had been overtaken by Viking warriors. Their request for assistance was the sort that Cartman would have ignored, but the council had determined that callousness toward their neighbors would not be their policy. Stan supported this, but resented having to leave. He had never faced a Viking in battle, and he had heard that they were ruthless giants.

"Surely there is someone you can speak to," Kyle said as Stan packed his trunk for the journey. "To get out of this, surely? You're retired, you've fought so many battles already, you toppled Cartman's empire--"

"Not single-handedly," Stan said, and he smiled. He was trying to remain calm about this, not wanting to worry Kyle. "And I'm hardly retired. The journey will take less than a week, and the battle should be brief."

"The idea of a brief, bloody battle is hardly reassuring," Kyle said. He was pacing, wearing his fur hat, wool socks pulled up to his knees. "Listen, Stan, I don't mean to sound as if I lack confidence in your abilities, but if there's any way you can accept some -- some sort of non-fighting assignment--"

"Come here," Stan said, and he stood from the trunk. Kyle did as he asked, frowning. "I hate to leave you, and I will ask for special consideration after this campaign. Being a member of the council might grant me some exceptions. But once they've handed down orders, I can't question them. If you'd been in an army you'd understand." 

"Well, I'm glad I haven't been in a stupid army," Kyle said, and he pushed Stan's hands off his shoulders. "This blind loyalty, automatic obedience - it sickens me! But yes, go off and save some fishermen from Vikings, that's worth your life and mine. You know I'll die if you don't return, Stan," Kyle said, walking away from him, his hands hugged around his elbows. "I will die. Know that."

"Then I'll return," Stan said. "Because I couldn't bear you dying." 

Kyle scoffed, unconvinced, and he was surly during dinner, though Stan had asked Butters to prepare Kyle's favorite roasted pork. Stan would leave in the morning, and every second that passed made him feel heavier, to the point that he wondered if he would be able to heft himself into the bed after dinner, let alone make it through the doorway while Kyle remained inside. 

"Butters and Craig will look after you," Stan said when they were in the bath together, Kyle sitting between Stan's legs and saying nothing, motionless while Stan washed his back. "You'll be safe here while I'm gone. Don't worry."

"I'll freeze to death without you at night," Kyle said. "Your fireplace is inefficient. You need a proper bedroom door. Too much heat escapes out into the other rooms." 

"You can ask Craig to have one built," Stan said. "That would be a good project to occupy you while I'm away. I'll leave money for the carpenter." 

"How is asking someone else to ask a carpenter to build a door going to occupy me for more than thirty seconds? The water's getting cold," Kyle said, and he stood, soap suds sliding down his back as he climbed out of the tub.

In bed, Kyle was quiet, but he let Stan hold him. Stan had asked Craig to make the fire across the room especially large, and in a few hours he supposed Butters would tiptoe across the room to replenish it. Stan envied the simplicity of their lives: no one would ever call them away to foreign lands. No matter how taxing their chores, they had the certainty of retiring together every night, beside their own fireplace. 

"Are you too angry to kiss me?" Stan asked, his hand snug over Kyle's ribs under the blankets. Kyle's hand was pushed up under Stan's tunic, too, his palm resting on Stan's stomach. 

"I never told you what my life was like before," Kyle said. "Before he took me, I mean." 

"I know," Stan said. "I thought it might be too painful." 

"You've got no idea," Kyle said, and his fingers flexed on Stan's stomach. He raised his eyes, meeting Stan's for the first time since he'd heard about Stan's orders. "You were sweet, teaching me how to shoot with that little bow," Kyle said. "Didn't you notice how good I was?"

"Well, yes," Stan said. "But it didn't surprise me. Why?"

"I was an athlete, in my village," Kyle said. "An archer. I was famous across the land for my precision. Cartman heard of me somehow, and he wanted me for his army. I was only fifteen, and we had no kings like him in our land. I didn't know what it would mean to laugh at this sort of person's offer to serve him. He sent men through my bedroom window to kidnap me, brought me to the hills outside my village and made me watch it burn. He put his foot on my back and his hand in my hair and he made me watch. And then." 

Kyle scooted down to put his face against Stan's chest. He didn't need to say what happened next. Stan held him, stroking his curls, hating that Cartman had ever touched them.

"When we came here, he told me I'd lost my opportunity to join his army and threw me into the harem with the women. I had so many chances to put myself out of my misery. Five years, and I thought about it every day. I thought I was a coward, holding on to hope, as if someone was going to save me, when everyone I'd ever known had been killed in that fire. But now I have you and I know why I endured every wretched day there, so that I could -- but if only I'd just joined the army, Stan, we might have met before any of this had happened, we could have protected each other--"

"Don't think like that now," Stan said. "You were brave to stand up to him."

"Brave! I had no idea what I was doing, who I was provoking. I don't think I even believed evil like that existed, before. I don't know why I'm telling you all of this. I suppose I've wanted you to know. I didn't want to tell you about the archery before I found out if I could still shoot after five years without touching a bow." 

"But you can," Stan said. "You can still shoot, Kyle. We can still have the life we should have. This campaign won't take me away from you for long, I won't let it."

"Suppose I came with you?" Kyle said, but Stan could see in his eyes that he still loathed the idea of fighting in an army. Kyle was too essentially independent. Even as a guest in Stan's rooms, he'd always reigned. 

"I want you to stay," Stan said. "Keep the bed warm for me. I would be sick with dread if you were near danger. I wouldn't be able to fight." 

"That's not fair," Kyle said, but he didn't press the issue. They both knew the suggestion of Kyle in the army was madness. The soldiers who had accepted former harem members as brides all knew about Kyle. They'd asked Stan what had become of him, and Stan said he'd found Kyle a place in his household. Everyone assumed Kyle was sweeping fireplaces and scrubbing the floors. Stan had Craig and Butters' discretion to thank for that, but whether some people suspected that Stan fucked his newest servant or not was irrelevant, really. No former whore would be welcomed into the fighting ranks, no matter how sharp he was with a bow.

"Maybe not tonight," Kyle said when Stan reached down to cup his bottom. "I know it's your last night, and I wanted to, but now that I've told that story I've gone all dark, I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't be sorry," Stan said. "It's enough to lie here with you. I just want to be with you until I go. I want to watch you sleep." 

"Stan," Kyle said, and Stan could hear the mix of anger and desperate sadness in his voice as his arms wound around Stan's neck. It tore at him, and there was nothing he could do about it. He held Kyle tighter and buried his face in Kyle's hair. 

It took them both a long time to drift off, and they whispered to each other in the interim, kissing chastely, hands under each other's tunics. Stan meant to stay awake all night, but he slept, and was sorry for it when he woke to an icy dawn, Kyle heavy with sleep, warm in his arms. 

"I have to go," Stan said when Kyle roused as he shifted. 

"No, please," Kyle mumbled, mostly asleep. He pressed his face to Stan's. "Please, it can't be over already." 

"It's just one night," Stan said. "We'll have many more. Kyle, I'll see you again. I'm not making this promise lightly." 

"Alright, yes," Kyle said, but he was still clinging to Stan. It took Stan almost half an hour to extricate himself, and he was late to report to his commander. 

The journey north in driving snow was misery. There was urgency to the campaign, so they were only allowed to camp twice. On both nights Stan shared a cramped tent with his friend Kenny, and they clung to each other for warmth the way they had since they were conscripted at sixteen. Stan felt guilty about even this, imagining Kyle alone under a pile of furs on their bed, and he jerked away when Kenny reached for his cock. 

"It's me," Kenny said, muttering this against Stan's forehead. "It's okay." 

"No, I know, but I can't," Stan said, wiggling so that their hips were no longer pressed together. He'd most regularly gone to Kenny during long campaigns, because Kenny was good at sucking cock and tended to be receptive to Stan's attempts to cuddle after sex. At home, Kenny had a wife, children, and two mistresses. "It's – too cold." 

"This will warm you up," Kenny said. "You won't have to leave the blankets. I mean, I agree it's too cold for full-on fucking, but—"

"I just can't," Stan said. "It would be. Dishonest." 

"Uhh," Kenny said, and he laughed. "How so? Have you become a priest?"

"No. I love someone. This has all become sort of sacred, so. It's hard to explain." 

"You love someone," Kenny said, pronouncing each word deliberately. "Well, alright, Stan, I can relate. I love my wife, for instance, and Arista and Gigi, and Carl the servant boy, when he's willing—"

"It's – I'm just too tired, anyway," Stan said. "But, ah. Thanks for thinking of me." 

Kenny sighed. "Can I hump your ass?" he asked. "Over the uniform, I mean."

"No, man, you can't." 

"Fine, alright. Fuck this campaign. I'm applying for honorable discharge after this one."

"Me, too," Stan said, smiling against Kenny's throat when he thought of how happy Kyle would be.

They reached the hills that overlooked the seaside villages two days later, and camped again, this time to observe and strategize. Stan was immensely relieved to learn from his commander that the Viking army was really more of a gang, just one ship's worth of raiders. They charged down the hills the following night, and by sunrise all of the raiders were dead or captured. Despite the cold, it ended up being a relatively easy campaign, and the victorious warriors were allowed to plunder the Viking ship. On it Stan found curiosities Kyle would appreciate, like leather calf boots in the Viking style, coins with runes carved into them, and some gold bracelets that Stan wasn't sure Kyle would like, considering his reaction to the gold arm bands Stan had brought him, which Kyle had never worn. Stan took the bracelets, anyway; they could be melted down and sold as gold bars if nothing else. 

On the journey home Stan continued to sleep in Kenny's tent, knowing that he wouldn't have to argue against further advances. Kenny didn't believe in soul mates, but he'd helped Stan kill the superior officers who'd attacked him, and Stan trusted him like a brother. He knew he'd only have to say no to Kenny once.

By the time they reached the castle walls it had been a long week of journeying with tough rations; in their celebrating after the easy victory they had carelessly devoured much of the perishable spoils they'd been given in thanks. Stan was hungry, and couldn't remember the last time he'd felt warm. He'd killed three Vikings, and even in the midst of the slaughter he hadn't been able to entirely forget how uncomfortably cold he was. He broke into a jog by the time he reached the streets of his neighborhood, the stones crusty with salt that had been put down over the scraped-away ice. He was shaking from a combination of anticipation and hunger by the time he fit his key into the door of his house. It was wedged between the houses of other soldiers, fine quarters with good views that had been given as rewards for faithful service. As Stan pushed into the foyer he could hear families next door and across the street welcoming their husbands, fathers, sons and brothers home.

"I'm back!" he bellowed, hoping that Kyle would run out to greet him first. Instead, Butters turned from the soup he was working on at the stove, something that smelled like cabbage, and Craig emerged from their room looking grave as usual. 

"Oh, thank goodness, master!" Butters said. He fell to his knees and bowed to Stan, something that Stan thought he'd finally talked Butters out of doing ever again. Craig groaned. 

"Is Kyle sleeping?" Stan asked, pulling off his scarf. 

"Let us help," Craig said, hurrying to Stan and starting on his breastplate. "Butters, get him some wine."

"I'd rather have a chunk of cheese and some water," Stan said. "Where's Kyle?" Only when he heard himself ask did he begin to worry.

"Oh," Butters said, still on his knees. He brought both fists to his mouth and looked to Craig, who was still untying the fastenings on Stan's armor.

"Craig," Stan said. "Where is Kyle?"

"He left three days ago," Craig said. "Took that weapon you bought him and some food from the pantry. Left no note."

"We looked everywhere for a note, honest!" Butters said, his hands clasped together now, as if he was begging Stan to have mercy on him as the messenger. "I – I thought he might have put it on your pillow, maybe it fell under the bed, and we looked in all the desk drawers, flipped through all the books--"

"Wait," Stan said, laughing a little, because this was impossible, some prank they were participating in. "Alright, I'm too tired to—"

"I'm sorry," Craig said, and when he met Stan's eyes there was softness there that Stan had never seen on him. "We've put word out in the village, asking if anyone has seen him. We've tried. We don't know where he is."

"No, that's – Kyle!" Stan walked away from Craig, still wearing his muddy boots, guards and all. He encountered a door where the curtain that led to his bedroom had been, and he threw it open angrily, ready to tell Kyle that this prank was not amusing. He stomped through the empty bedroom and flung the curtain that led to the bathing chamber aside. He thrust himself out onto the balcony. Kyle was nowhere; Kyle was gone.

For five hours, Stan did not undress, bathe, or eat. Butters wept, and Craig repeated the same information over and over, trying to make Stan accept it. Kyle had left in the night without a word to the servants and without a note for Stan. Kyle had not been back. No one in the village had seen him. 

"It happens," Craig said, and suddenly Stan could see how tired he was. The cabbage soup had gone uneaten, cold on the stove. "Some people are very charming. They make you feel as if your life will change. I suffered this, once, when I was a boy." 

"You did?" Butters said, and he grabbed for Craig's hand. He released it when he saw the way Stan stared at their enduring connection. 

"Please, here," Craig said, going to the side board. "Eat some cheese. Wash the filth from your face. Let us take care of you."

"No, but," Stan said. He couldn't seem to put a full sentence together. "Kyle will—" He left off there, too dizzy to continue, and clutched at his stomach to try to hold the bile down.

The next day was torment, and the following day was worse. Stan tore his bedroom apart searching for a note, any secret message that the servants might have missed. There was nothing. He couldn't sleep, food tasted like dust, and bathing was a personal insult, because Kyle wasn't there with him. He drank until he could only stumble to bed, weeping so loudly that he knew the servants could hear him.

On the third day he woke with a rollicking headache, feeling bloated and drained all at once. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Stan grunted angrily, pushing Butters away.

"Stan," Butters said, and Stan turned to snarl at him furiously, because it was not acceptable to imitate Kyle's voice so accurately. 

Nor was it appropriate to dress like Kyle, to look like him, and this was not Butters. Stan stared at Kyle, frightened, as if seeing proof of witchcraft. 

"What is this?" Stan asked, thinking he might have swallowed enough wine to end himself.

"You're home!" Kyle said, and he was weeping a little, crawling onto Stan to hug him. "Oh, Stan, you're home. I didn't think you'd be home so soon." 

"Kyle." Stan put his trembling hands on Kyle's sides, trying to remember why he should be angry. The smell of Kyle was filling him up like nourishment from the heavens, instantly erasing every trace of the wraith he had been for the past two days. 

"I had this whole scheme planned for your return!" Kyle said, laughing when he leaned up to look at Stan. His face was soaked with tears. Stan could only gape vacantly as Kyle held his cheeks. "I had, oh, honey, you must have been so frightened. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never meant to scare you. It's just that the servants might have stopped me, or gossiped. Stan, you don't how know happy I am, you don't know." Kyle kissed Stan's face, his lips. 

"Wait," Stan said, grabbing Kyle's shoulders, holding him still. He looked dirty, like he had returned from a campaign of his own. "Wait, look – tell me where you've been."

"I had to do a thing," Kyle said, and he sat back on Stan's hips. "A personal thing. I was going out of my mind, waiting for you to come back. I finally just thought – why not? Oh, but, see – I wanted to be prepared for you, I had no idea you'd be back so soon. Let me take a bath, and I'll show you what I meant for you to find when you walked in here. You look like you've see a ghost, poor Stan." Kyle kissed him all over, and Stan knew he should push him away angrily, but then again, did he know that? He opened his mouth for Kyle's tongue, let himself melt under the weight of him, and wondered if this was only a dream.

"Kyle," Stan said, letting his voice break, wanting Kyle to hear how much he'd hurt him. "Kyle—"

"I want to hear everything about your campaign," Kyle said, smoothing Stan's hair back. It was dirty; he hadn't washed it since his return. "But let me make myself presentable for you first. Stan, I had such an idea of how I'd receive you, to make up for past missteps." He kissed Stan deeply before he could protest, smiled and slid away. 

"Wait," Stan said, sitting up, afraid Kyle would disappear. Someone was knocking on the new bedroom door.

"I think the servants want you, love," Kyle said, and he disappeared into the bathing chamber, the curtain swinging behind him. 

Butters told Stan someone was at the door, and Stan walked there blindly, his vision tunneled by relief and confusion. He was wearing a dirty tunic that was only fit for sleeping in, and Kenny laughed when he saw this.

"Been in bed all day with your love, eh?" Kenny said when Stan met him at the door. "No, I understand. Between fucking my wife and playing with my kids I've barely been out of my bedclothes. But listen, I had to come and tell you at once. There are rumors all through the kingdom that someone's killed Cartman. Some assassin shot him dead with one arrow, through the left eye. I thought you'd want to know, since we were both so opposed to banishment. They should have let wild dogs eat him and run his bones all over the village, but this isn't so bad, you know? He was scrounging around like a rat in Hellhole Canyon, cutting his hands open on cacti to get a drink of water, and some magnificent bastard blew his brains out through his eye! Stan?" Kenny shook him by the shoulder. "You alright?"

"Yes," Stan said, and he hugged Kenny very tightly, needing to brace himself on something.

"Alright," Kenny said. He slapped Stan's back and laughed. "My offer from the tent has expired, sadly."

"It's not – thank you," Stan said, and he pulled back. "Thank you."

"Hey, you're welcome." Kenny squeezed Stan's shoulders. He'd come home from the hardest campaign of his life to find his whole family dead from the poisoned water system, too. "He's gotten what he deserved," Kenny said. 

When Kenny was gone, Stan suddenly felt the hunger he'd been ignoring for the past two days. He went to the kitchen sideboard and ate stale bread until Butters appeared and began producing food in a panic, offering cheese and cured meat, even honey. 

"I'm so glad Master Kyle is back," Butters said, his eyes glittering with sincerity. "He must have just had some business elsewhere, that's understandable! But he loves you, sir, I knew it. I told Craig. I just knew."

Stan wanted to know this, too, but he was already afraid that he would return to the bedroom to find Kyle gone again. He drank a glass of water to wash the food down, touched Butters' head fondly, and turned to face his fear that he wouldn't find his home where he'd left it.

This time, he noticed the new door: it was a heavy wood, a medium brown that glowed, with natural variants that made it look like a section of a giant tree's trunk that had been cut away. High on the door there were three colored glass panels: red, blue, and green. It was simple but finely made. Stan ran his hand over the glossy wood before reaching for the knob, begging whatever spirits had once inhabited the wood to give him luck. He knew he would not survive another fortnight of days like the past two, not without Kyle.

He was almost too nervous to make his eyes focus properly once he walked into the room, and what he saw did seem like more of a fantasy than anything he might have expected. Kyle was stretched out on the bed, a white sheet wrapped around him, tied over his shoulders and threaded between his legs. He was wearing the gold arm bands and the bracelets Stan had brought from the Viking village, gold ribbons tied around his ankles. 

"I didn't plunder your trunk, exactly," Kyle said, dropping onto his back and arching a bit, showing off. He was glowing from the bath, and Stan could smell something more delicate than soap in the air, something Kyle had dabbed onto himself. "But I saw the bracelets and I thought, well. They go so well with the bands. I was saving them for when I could really surprise you. Stan?" Kyle frowned and rolled onto his stomach. "Are you alright?"

"You were gone," Stan said, holding his hands out, wanting Kyle to take both of them and pull him to the bed. 

"I didn't mean to be," Kyle said. He sat up again, on his knees, somehow more sexual when he wasn't posing for Stan. 

"I know," Stan said. He wondered if they would ever talk about what Kyle had done. Stan was proud of him, but he understood that it was deeply personal, something that couldn't be shared, the work of a lone assassin who had waited many years to loose his arrow. 

"Come here," Kyle said. Stan ran to him, jumped onto the bed, bounced once before he fell into Kyle's arms. 

They didn't talk; there was too much to say and nowhere to start. Stan felt like his half of the story was understood as he held Kyle against him and licked into his mouth, wanting him to know everything: the plodding days of nothing but walking into the snow, Kenny's bittersweet advances, the moment of sympathy Stan felt every time he put a sword through another man's neck. Everyone he'd ever killed was just another man who was fighting for some other reason, but whatever exception to this rule that Cartman had been was ended, and Stan's gold-cuffed bedmate had done it. He would always secretly believe that Kyle was a prince. 

"Please tell me you didn't think I'd left you," Kyle said when they lay together after, piled under the furs. 

"It was more like I feared I'd imagined you," Stan said. "I haven't been able to keep many good things, either." 

"I'll never do that again," Kyle said. "I'll never disappear – I'll never need to."

"Nor will I," Stan said. "I'm done with the army. We should go to someplace where you could have my name."

"Don't get all excited," Kyle said, laughing, but of course that was his plan: that they would go somewhere small and safe where they could paint their names on their post box and not have to pretend that Kyle was Stan's servant. 

It was a good plan. Stan brought the servants along with him, and they made a little house of their own on the farm that Stan purchased with the proceeds from the Viking raid and his retirement commission from the army. Butters raised chickens and took the most successful ones to county fairs to compete for plumage prizes. Craig took up carpentry and became known for his affordable but well-made cradles. Stan brought the door Kyle had ordered in his absence with them, and installed it between their bedroom and the den. 

Kyle wore his gold arm bands only on special occasions, and Stan always slid them off with care afterward, as if he was freeing Kyle from something. 

"You don't have to wear these," Stan said one night as he was setting them on the table by the bed, Kyle still breathless, reaching for him. 

"What?" Kyle said. "But I love them."

"Kyle. You hated them when you first saw them."

"Did I? No, you're right, I did. While you were gone I cried about it, how I had lashed out over a gift, the way your face had fallen. I put them on and kissed them and wished to have you back."

"I never knew," Stan said, pulling Kyle against him. It was summer, bugs singing outside, loud through the open patio doors. 

"Now you know," Kyle said. 

They slept, and Stan dreamed that he was wandering through the camps during his first few days in the army, afraid but unharmed. He saw a boy shooting the buds off of flowers in a meadow, a group gathered around him and cheering him on. Kyle turned to smile at Stan as if he knew him already. They fell together, hands clasped, and laughed at anyone who thought he could hurt them. In the morning – Butters quietly collecting the bedroom rugs for a cleaning, Kyle turning to burrow against Stan's chest – all the best parts of the dream were still true.


	9. A Closet with a View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cartman spies on Kyle and witnesses something he didn't expect.

Cartman wonders what he thinks about. Stan, probably, or maybe Kenny. He's definitely envisioning a guy, because he touches his hole with one hand while the other grips his cock, and sometimes he even pushes his finger inside, gasping like he's managed to surprise himself. Once it's in, Kyle's hand goes still on his cock and he fucks himself slow, whining quietly at the back of his throat, his eyebrows slightly pinched, legs spread and tensed. 

That's usually when Cartman comes in his own hand, his face pressed to the wooden slats on Kyle's bedroom closet. There's just enough space between them for Cartman to be able to see everything, even in the dark. Kyle always leaves his curtains open, letting the moonlight spill over him, because he's on the second floor, and who could see him?

Kyle takes a long time to finish, and sometimes Cartman can beat out another batch before he does. With Kyle it's almost like he's trying to talk himself out of enjoying it the whole time. He chews on his lips and makes the softest noises, almost like protestations, as if Cartman has possessed him from across the room and he's the one who is making Kyle do this to himself. 

Cartman comes so hard the first time he thinks up that scenario. He fucking loves the idea of Kyle suffering through his pleasure, experiencing it against his will, disgusted with himself. His fantasies about this sustained him for a long time, but by senior year of high school they just weren't enough. Now Cartman sneaks into Kyle's bedroom almost every night, because pretty soon they'll leave for college, and getting into Kyle's dorm will be trickier. 

After Kyle comes he tends to lie still for a short time, breathing hard and very carefully extracting his finger from his ass if necessary. Cartman wishes to God that Kyle would grow a pair and shove something else up there, but it seems he's too much of a pussy to try it. Cartman knows he would wince and cry but ultimately fucking love it, even if whatever got stuck up there wasn't originally his idea. Cartman's dick, for example. Kyle would fight him hard, and his futile struggling would feel good on Cartman's dick, because he'd already be deep inside Kyle, possessing him, sullying him, owning every inch of him the way he's always known he should. Finally Kyle would give up, quit the outraged act and weep helplessly like the pathetic homo he is, and Cartman would fuck him nice and hard, until Kyle was shuddering with an orgasm that made him feel that much dirtier. 

Cartman has gotten so obsessed that lately even spying like this doesn't feel like enough, but he's not stupid. Short of killing Kyle, he wouldn't be able to shut that big mouth if anything happened and Kyle decided to be a little tattletale like he was when they were kids and his useless conscious got in the way of Cartman's plans. So he has to settle for the closet, because he knows he'll never seduce Kyle. His best hope is someday claiming huge amounts of power and being able to buy and sell people on a whim. Kyle would be his first purchase. 

After Kyle has languished in a brief winding-down period, he'll get up from the bed and clean his soft cock. Cartman likes this part, too, though he's not sure why. Sometimes his favorite part is when Kyle returns from washing his hands across the hall and takes off his pajama pants, curls up on his side and settles in for sleep. He wears a soft-looking t-shirt and tight briefs, and Cartman wants to creep up behind him in bed and rub that perfect little bubble butt until Kyle starts whimpering for more in his sleep, pushing unknowingly into his hand. Cartman has been researching sleeping pills that might make this possible, but so far he's found nothing. It's either knock Kyle out completely or risk having him conscious enough to realize what's going on and scream for help. Cartman wants it somewhere in between: Kyle dozy and confused but still horny, falling into Cartman's hands and waking in the morning feeling dirty but remembering nothing. 

Once Kyle is sleeping deeply, Cartman slips out. He usually has another beat off at home, frustrated enough by the walk through the dark to indulge his basest fantasies - the kinds of things that would happen post-purchase of Kyle - and when he's done he sleeps like a baby. 

On a spring-like Friday, Cartman heads over to Kyle's house after school as usual, and while the Broflovski family is having dinner downstairs he sneaks in through the garage door and tip-toes upstairs to take his usual spot in the closet. He's hardly small, but there's a supply of old winter coats at the back of Kyle's closet that he can hide behind just in case Kyle comes poking inside, and he props up an old gym bag to hide his legs and feet. If Kyle did find him in here, he probably wouldn't even be that surprised, and Cartman would just laugh as he shoved his way out of the closet. But he'd have to find a new hiding place. 

Sometimes he has to wait a long time for Kyle to show up on Friday nights, because he usually goes out with Stan and Kenny, but it's always worth it. After being in the presence of those two Kyle gets all worked up, and he always uses at least one finger on himself, sometimes two.

When he finally hears Kyle's voice in the hallway he hears another voice, too, and it doesn't take him long to place it: Stan. There have only been a few Friday nights when Stan has joined Kyle in his room. Now that they both have cars they tend to prefer to hang out elsewhere. Cartman doesn't mind the intrusion; Kyle talks to Stan about a lot of things. Cartman has learned some valuable secrets by eavesdropping.

"It's like he doesn't even hear what's coming out his mouth," Kyle is saying as they burst into the room. Cartman's heart is beating a little harder than usual. Kyle is scrawny and small, but Stan actually has the ability to kick his ass if he's caught here.

"He probably won't even remember," Stan says. "Don't worry about it, dude."

"Yeah, fuck him, anyway," Kyle says, mumbling. Cartman moves out from behind the coats slowly, shifting the gym bag aside. He hears Kyle sigh and drop into his desk chair. 

"Kenny didn't mean it like that," Stan says. "He was just drunk." 

"Whatever," Kyle mutters. He's clicking around on his computer. Cartman settles into place behind the closet door, peering through the slats. Stan is sitting on Kyle's bed, toeing off his shoes. Seeing Stan in that territory that he's fantasized about trespassing on so often makes Cartman go tense with anger.

"It's been forever since I've been over here," Stan says.

"I know," Kyle says.

"It's weird."

"No, it's not." Kyle turns from his computer, wheeling the chair around so that he's facing Stan. "Is it?"

"I don't know." Stan laughs. He seems nervous. "What are you looking at? Facebook? Jesus." 

"I just wanted to make sure Kenny didn't post pictures."

"Dude, he doesn't even have a camera in his phone." 

"Oh, yeah."

Kyle walks over to the bed, kicking his shoes off on the way. It's unlike him to leave them strewn across the floor like that. Usually he's an anal little neat freak. He's moving slowly, avoiding Stan's eyes as he drops down to sit beside him. Stan scoots closer and Kyle smiles, still not looking at him. He doesn't meet Stan's eyes until Stan is pressing his face right up against Kyle's. Kissing him.

Cartman can barely keep quiet. He wants to shout, or at least laugh at them. They look so stupid, so fucking weak and girly and pathetic, kissing each other softly, touching each other like they're afraid they might be pushed away. They're kissing with tongues, but they're doing it like two pre-schoolers who barely know how, invading each other's mouths politely. They're probably, like, shivering. Fucking pussies.

"Sorry," Kyle says when he pulls back, and he laughs. His hand is on Stan's waist, the other one resting on his own thigh. "It's still, um. Weird, and stuff."

"I know," Stan says. He's smiling but he looks like he might throw up. "Do you want to stop, like? For a minute?"

"No," Kyle says. "Don't stop." Cartman has never seen him like this. He's whispery and meek, making a fucking display of himself for Stan to -- to violate. He might as well just shove his pants down and show Stan his hole, Jesus Christ. Cartman considers whether or not he'd like to see that: something big going into Kyle's virgin asshole at last, but that thing being Stan's unworthy dick.

They keeping kissing like they're getting off on it or something. Stan doesn't even push Kyle down onto the bed in an attempt to mount him. He pulls Kyle closer, halfway into his lap, and moves down to kiss his neck. Kyle, of course, moans like a whore.

“You like that?” Stan says. He's shy, mumbling, and Cartman has seen him like this before, but not for a long time. 

“Mhm,” Kyle says. He's all floaty and stupid from Stan's attention – it's disgusting. Cartman has a thousand insults bubbling at the back of his throat, but he can't say anything. He digs his fingernails into his palms as Kyle and Stan rub their faces together like they're fucking deer or something. 

“Can I stay?” Stan asks. “I mean, spend the night?”

“Yeah, dude,” Kyle says. He touches the collar of Stan's shirt, tugging on it a little. “Um, I want you to.”

Great. Fucking great. Now Cartman won't even be able to enjoy Kyle finger-fucking himself passionately in the aftermath. If anything, he'll have to settle for watching Stan actually fuck that hole. While witnessing that might not be terrible, but it's certainly not ideal. 

“I'm gonna take my jeans off,” Stan says. Kyle laughs, and Stan does, too, his forehead knocking against Kyle's. 

“Do you want me to bring up some snacks?” Kyle asks. “We've got ice cream. Rocky Road.”

“Sweet, yeah,” Stan says, and Cartman wants to beat his hands against the closet door to protest this idiocy. Stan has Kyle all hot and bothered, they've both got half boners, and Stan is consenting to Kyle's bullshit ice cream distraction, getting up from the bed and unbuckling his pants, letting them slide down over his thighs. Fucking weak, but maybe he thinks the bulge at his crotch will redirect Kyle to that general area. Admittedly, Kyle is staring at it.

“Kay,” Kyle says. He goes to Stan and gives him a soft kiss on the lips. Stan just stands there with his hands at his sides, jeans pooled around his ankles, a dumb smile on his face. “Be right back,” Kyle says.

When Kyle is gone, Cartman wants to burst forth from the closet and give Stan a game plan. Obviously the fucker needs one. But Stan would be all like, 'Cartman, you shouldn't be in Kyle's closet' and shit, and Cartman doesn't need that right now. He's barely even hard, and if he can't at least get off on this hippie nonsense he's going to be really pissed off. 

Kyle returns with two bowls of ice cream – why not just bring up the whole carton and a couple of spoons? – and he takes off his pants before joining Stan in the bed. They don't even watch videos on Kyle's laptop while they eat, they just talk, and not about anything interesting. Kyle is obsessed over something Kenny did to insult him during the evening, and Stan is so pussy whipped that he's endlessly trying to reassure Kyle that no one thinks less of him. Cartman yawns, barely able to pay attention. He hates it when porn tries to have a plot.

“Do you think he knows about us?” Kyle asks. 

“Nah,” Stan says. “How could he? I haven't told anyone. Have you?”

“Stan! No! Of course I haven't. But maybe he can just tell. Maybe that's why he's giving me a hard time.”

“I still think he's not even trying to give you a hard time,” Stan says. He licks his spoon and sets his empty ice cream bowl on the bedside table. Cartman wants to take this as a sign that he'll see some action soon, but of course Kyle is eating his ice cream like a dainty lady, still working on it.

"Do you think I'm oversensitive?" Kyle asks, staring into his ice cream bowl.

"Mhm, I don't know," Stan says. "Maybe right here you are." He leans over and licks at a spot just behind Kyle's ear. Something about it makes Cartman hot all over with a combination of arousal and fury. Kyle laughs and cringes, then leans into Stan, tilting his head to offer better access.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Kyle says.

"Why?" Stan lifts his head from Kyle's neck. "You never, like, thought about it? Before?"

"I thought about it," Kyle says, muttering. He's stirring his melted ice cream. "A lot, actually."

"Yeah, me too," Stan says. "Including when I was jerking it." 

"Jerking it," Kyle says, and he snorts. Even from the closet, Cartman can see him start to blush the way he does when he first spreads his legs for his own finger. He must be thinking of that now, and how often he thought of Stan when he did it. Cartman reaches down to squeeze himself through his jeans. This shit's about to get good, he can feel it. 

"What, you never thought about me?" Stan says, cocky and staring while Kyle avoids his eyes. "Here in your bed?"

"You _know_ I did, asshole." 

"Sometimes I wondered if you even beat off at all."

"What! Why?" 

"Because you're so pure or something," Stan says. "So good."

Cartman actually scoffs at that, but it's concealed by Kyle's own disbelieving grunt. 

"I'm -- you underestimate me," Kyle says. "Or overestimate me, I guess." 

"I don't want to scare you, but, like--" Stan pauses until Kyle meets his eyes. "I find you really -- sexual, um. I want to do things to you."

Cartman has to bite his lip hard to keep from bursting into derisive laughter. _I find you really sexual?_ Who the fuck says that? Kyle, on the other hand, looks serious and transfixed, his lips parting a little. 

"Like what things?" he asks.

Unfairly, Stan whispers his response into Kyle's ear. Cartman feels as though he's heard it anyway when Kyle makes a choked little sound, his face getting brighter. 

"I want that, too," Kyle says, nodding, whorishly eager. "I've -- I've wanted it. From you. You're the only one I'd want doing that to me. Like, like--"

"I know," Stan says. Kyle is getting flustered. Stan pets him and kisses his face, reigning him in. "You're the only one I want to know like that. On the, um, inside." 

"I want you to know me like that," Kyle says, whispering this into Stan's mouth. He seems hypnotized as they kiss, like he's seeing all of Stan as one giant wang that he wants to devour. "Stan, it's like - heaven, you know, when we're close, when I feel connected to you, and it's fucking hell when you're far away." 

"So it stands to reason," Stan says, stroking Kyle's cheek, and Cartman has to give him some grudging credit. He's working this shit now. 

"Stands to reason," Kyle says. He nods, his eyes glassy. Stan takes the mostly empty ice cream bowl from Kyle's lap and sets it on the bedside table. It was concealing an erection that's now obvious between Kyle's legs, trapped inside his jeans and pressed along his left thigh. 

They kiss again, and Cartman licks his lips, wanting to taste Rocky Road ice cream there. If he was ever able to get Kyle all sex-dazed like this he would be on top of that bitch in two seconds, but Stan is taking his time, guiding him down toward the pillows slowly. Kyle lets his head fall back when Stan kisses his neck again, and he gasps when Stan reaches up under his shirt.

"Let me take it off," Stan says, whispering. "Can I?"

"Oh -- fine," Kyle says. He removes his shirt himself, looking petulant. Kyle's chest is skinny and pale, but Cartman can guess what Stan is interested in: Kyle's nipples, pointed with arousal and almost as red as his hair. Stan kisses his way down over Kyle's collarbone and makes a beeline for the left one, licking and sucking while Kyle holds his head in place, his hips beginning to twitch.

Kyle's nipples are redder and pointier when Stan is done with them, and Cartman is kneading his crotch. Stan takes his shirt off, which is a boner buzzkill. Cartman isn't into athletic types, and Stan is fucking full of himself, hovering over Kyle while Kyle's hands slide over his chest. 

"Lay on me," Kyle says, and Stan does. They kiss some more. Cartman withholds an impatient groan. He feels like he's about to burst more from frustration than arousal by the time Stan finally reaches for the button on Kyle's jeans. 

"Can I?" Stan asks. Kyle hesitates to respond, but his legs are spreading. 

"I want it," Kyle says. "Just, just. It's weird." 

Fucking Kyle with his _weird_. Cartman grits his teeth. He never thought he'd be rooting for Stan to put his dumb jock hands all over what should be Cartman's property, but if he's going to have to witness this it could at least get R-rated. 

"We could wait," Stan says. "It's okay. In college we'll room together--"

"No, I don't want to wait," Kyle says. "Just, I don't know. Here." He unbuttons his pants and slides the zipper down. Stan is hovering over him, sort of frozen, staring at Kyle's crotch. Smooth.

Kyle lifts his hips and Stan takes his cue to pull Kyle's pants down. He does so gently, slowly, like he's unwrapping something sharp. Kyle's dick might qualify: it's poking his briefs up into a lewd tent. 

Once they're both in only their socks and underwear they sit on Kyle's bed staring at each other. Stan's nipples are light brown and smaller than Kyle's. His cock looks average-sized at best, based on the bulge, but it's still bigger than Cartman's.

"Stan!" Kyle says, frowning.

"What?"

"Why are you just sitting there?"

"I don't know," Stan says, fidgeting. "Why are you?"

"'Cause you're the one who -- c'mere!"

They laugh nervously and fall together for more sloppy kissing. Cartman grits his teeth, but he's quickly granted a measure of relief: Kyle is pushing his hips up against Stan's desperately, muffled moans landing against Stan's lips as he tries to grind their cocks together. Stan groans when he gets the idea -- finally, retard -- and rolls his hips down to meet Kyle's. 

"Oh, fuck," Kyle says, panting. "Fuck, dude." 

"Mhm, yeah," Stan says, and Cartman can tell by his attempt at a seductive tone that he's about to say something intensely stupid. "You like that, baby?"

"Don't -- ass breath, did you just call me your _baby_?"

"Yeah," Stan says, and he gives his hips a long, slow roll, shutting Kyle up momentarily. "You, uh, got a problem with that?"

"Um, yes," Kyle says, but he grins when Stan takes his wrists and pins them. 

"'Cause I think -- you might be -- my baby," Stan says. Cartman gags as quietly as possible. Fortunately they're too preoccupied to notice.

"I am not," Kyle says, and he bucks underneath Stan. It seems to create particularly good friction: they both moan and writhe against each other crazily for a moment, breathing harder. Stan leans down and puts his mouth over Kyle's like he's going to kiss him, but he stops just short and blinks.

"Can I see your ass?" he asks. Kyle bursts into giddy laughter that tapers off quickly. 

"Uh," Kyle says. "I guess. Right now?"

"Well. Whenever you want to show me. I'm just putting it on record that I want to see it."

"I'm gonna come, though," Kyle says, quietly, and he rocks his hips up. "Let me come first, please? I'm really close."

"Fuck," Stan says. "Hah, yeah, okay. Yes. Can I--?" He reaches down to place his fingertips on Kyle's crotch, very lightly. Cartman has his hands inside his pants, and he tries to mimic the touch on himself, the way Stan is teasing Kyle inadvertently and how must feel for Kyle, who is straining up into Stan's hand, arching, panting, his head thrashing when Stan's fingers wrap around him. 

"Please," Kyle says. "Stan--"

"Shhhh," Stan says, softly, drawing it out like he's pouring a thin stream of sugar into hot water, and Cartman digs a tooth deeply into his bottom lip to keep from making a sound as he unloads in his pants. Kyle fills his own boxers soon afterward, crying out and going limp under Stan.

"Fuck me," Kyle says, whimpering this into Stan's mouth as Cartman comes to. That was a good one, and what's this -- is he serious? "Fuck me, please," Kyle whispers. "I need you inside me. D-deep, and just, hah, I need it--" 

"I can't," Stan says, and Cartman has to throw his head back violently, wanting to bang it forward against the closet door. "You're not -- I've never even had my fingers in there, dude. You're not really ready, are you?"

"I've had them in there," Kyle says. "My fingers. Before, I've tried it. F-feels good." He's insane with lust, glowing with it, and Cartman is already getting hard again, raging with the need to fill that greedy hole, to give Kyle the pounding he's literally begging for. Stan will never manage it, and Cartman is in the perfect condition to last long enough to administer a nice, hard fucking. He's throbbing all over the the need to demonstrate this, halfway sure that he should just step out and bellow to them that he's volunteering his services for their own good. For Kyle's, especially.

"Please," Kyle says, arching up against Stan, pressing their chests together.

"Five minutes ago you thought kissing me was weird," Stan says. "Now you want my dick? The whole thing? I mean, don't get me wrong, I really, really want to try it, but I'm -- I don't know how to do this, dude. You know? I've never, um."

"I can show you," Kyle says. He sits up on his elbows and nuzzles Stan's cheek with his nose. "I've read all the guides."

"All the guides?"

"Online, for -- this." Kyle moans, some of the post-orgasmic haze draining from his eyes. He drops back onto the pillows while Stan hovers over him on all fours like some brain dead animal that can't figure out how to insert Tab A into Slot B. "Move back," Kyle says. "I'm gonna show you my ass now, okay?"

"Oh -- okay." Stan actually sounds kind of torn up. Cartman is so going to leave a flaming bag of shit on his doorstep tomorrow night. In the meantime, he does love seeing Kyle's ass, and watching him go bright red as he slides off his underwear and exposes his ginger pubes is enough to get Cartman fully hard again. 

"Um, here," Kyle says. He turns away from Stan as he pulls off his socks. Completely nude, he takes hold of the headboard and peeks back over his shoulder. Even his shoulders are blushing. "Uh, I'd like to introduce you to my ass," he says, and he reaches back -- clever girl -- to pull one cheek away from the other, arching to show Stan not just his ass but his hole.

Displaying for him like a fucking dog in heat. Cartman might have known. He's sweltering inside the closet, his breath fogging against the wooden slats. Stan has apparently been turned to stone by the sight of Kyle's wrinkled little pucker. Cartman doesn't dare to move as he waits to see what will happen next, his hand tight around his cock, which is throbbing like it's keeping time, ticking with each heavy second that passes.

"Kyle," Stan says, very softly. He moves closer and touches the back of Kyle's neck. Kyle's face is so red that Cartman is afraid he's on the verge of an aneurism that will shut this whole thing down. He holds his breath as Stan's fingers travel gently down the length of Kyle's spine. Kyle lets go of his ass, allowing the cheek to bounce back into place. He's watching Stan's face, looking almost tearful.

"So?" Kyle says, clearly asking what Stan thinks of what's on display. Cartman expects Stan to say something faggy like 'you're beautiful,' but Stan doesn't say anything. He hugs Kyle to him, his arm slipping around Kyle's waist. They kiss almost tentatively, both on their knees, Kyle still facing the headboard.

"I've been thinking about this for the past two years," Stan says. "How it would feel -- how you would, um. What it would be like if it was you and me." 

Cartman wants to laugh. Two measly fucking years? He's been thinking about it for five, and even before he knew about butt sex he'd wanted to be inside Kyle, possessing him, hard and merciless like a nail to a cross.

"You can touch me," Kyle says, pronouncing the words like it hurts to say so. Stan is already touching him, his hand soothing across Kyle's back, but he seems to understand what Kyle is saying. He moves his hand lower, cupping one ass cheek lightly before squeezing the other. Kyle lets out a choppy breath and closes his eyes, resting his forehead on Stan's shoulder.

"This is, like," Stan says, and he swallows before continuing, "The softest skin I've ever felt, I think."

"My ass skin?" 

"Uh huh. It's so -- you feel so good." Stan is rubbing Kyle's ass, fingertips digging in to knead his supple flesh. Cartman actually feels tears sting his eyes, so jealous he can barely breathe. The skin on Kyle's ass is just a shade lighter than the ivory curve of his back. It looks so untouched, or did before Stan got to it, like a fresh snowfall. It's quickly becoming marked up from Stan's caresses, blushing under his fingers. Kyle is hard again, his cock pointed at the headboard. Cartman can't believe Stan hasn't blown his load yet. It seems almost ungrateful, maintaining an erection in those conditions.

"Do you want to lie down?" Stan asks. Cartman wills Kyle to say no. He's got a perfect view from this angle.

"I always pictured it like this," Kyle says. "Like, you would stand me up on my knees and just, um. Take me, or whatever."

"Or whatever," Stan says. He snorts and kisses Kyle, still touching his ass, his fingers beginning to dip into the crack. Every time they do, sliding from the cleft down into the dark wonderland between the cheeks, Kyle gasps. Cartman is stroking himself with increasing desperation, beginning to wonder if he's going to come three times before Stan does. "Do you have stuff?" Stan asks.

"Stuff?"

"Um, so I can get in there. Lube, I guess." 

"Oh, yeah!" Kyle nods to his bedside table. "It's in the top drawer. Aquaphor. I've experimented with a few different moisturizers and I like that one the best. It has good staying power. What?" he asks when Stan finds the tube of moisturizer and turns back to him, grinning.

"Nothing," Stan says. "I just love -- how you are." 

"How I am?" 

"Yeah, like. How you tested all these things on yourself. It's just, it's cute." He kisses Kyle's forehead. "Put your elbows on the bed, okay, if that's alright?"

"That's alright," Kyle says. He smiles, scooting back. "Is that how you pictured it?"

"I pictured it more like on a bed of flowers in the mountains," Stan says. "With birdsong and shit. But this is good. Yeah, like. Stick it up, uh-huh. Jesus, dude. Just like that, fuck."

Cartman is masturbating furiously, forgiving Stan for all that's come before, because he's got Kyle on his hands and knees now: ass lifted, head down, back arched. It's fucking perfect, and of course Kyle arches more deeply when Stan rubs the lube on his hole. 

"Don't be shy," Kyle says, gasping the words out. Stan is sitting Indian-style beside him, holding his thigh while he examines Kyle's hole like he's trying to coax an animal out of its shell. 

"Shy?" Stan says. "Um, what do you mean? Just shove in?"

"No!" Kyle says, and Cartman mouths the word along with him. Admittedly, there is a certain appeal to the idea of shoving into Kyle without permission, but to be _granted_ the fucking _honor_ of his willing submission -- well, it should be savored. Kyle should be teased, too, but Cartman knows Stan isn't capable of such finesse. 

"Well, what do you mean?" Stan asks. He sounds flustered; part of Cartman just wants him to fail, chance to see Kyle penetrated by Stan's dick or not. 

"Don't go super slow," Kyle says. "And c'mere, like. Your arm's long enough, you can kiss me and stuff while you do that." 

"Oh, God, sorry," Stan says, and he hurries to spread himself out along Kyle's side, pressing his face to Kyle's on the mattress. His arm is long enough, but barely. "I'm just so fucking thrilled that this is happening, okay, I'm gonna do it all wrong—"

"Shh, c'mere," Kyle says. They kiss, and it's like goddamn Rocky Road all over again, Stan's hand a good five inches from that slick, half-ready hole. Eventually – fuck! – Kyle drops down and scoots into Stan's arms for better mouth access, and when Stan's fingers find that hole again it's pointed toward the wall, cruelly robbing Cartman of a full view. 

"Okay to go in?" Stan says, whispering. Kyle giggles – the fucking girlishness of it can't be described any other way – and nods. 

"Yeah," Kyle says. He's breathing more heavily, inching more closely into Stan's arms and pressing to his chest like he's afraid of what's happening, what Stan's doing to him, and expect Stan to save him from it, too. "Unnnh."

And then there's just a lot of moaning, kissing, and Cartman comes in his pants when Kyle says _please, I'm so ready_.

Cartman has always assumed that watching Kyle endure serious penetration for the first time would be a kind of pinnacle of achievement. Admittedly, he envisioned himself doing the penetration in those scenarios, but he's also had fantasies about watching Kyle be violated by others, because why not? It would be the same kind of Kyle torture that's made him come for years. This is different, though he doesn't hate it. He's bored but not angry, maybe only because he's already blown two loads. His dick is only half hard as Stan and Kyle fuck like turtle doves, whining with pleasure and whispering to each other about how _good_ everything is, rutting in quick bursts before stopping to pant and kiss. They clearly want it to last for as long as possible, and by the time Cartman goes soft he's rooting for it to end but not as pissed off as he would have expected to be by watching someone inferior fuck Kyle. 

“Ky – gonna come, I'm, Kyle, I –” Stan says when he starts fucking into Kyle not exactly wildly but desperately, as if he's lost control. 

“It's okay,” Kyle says. He's petting Stan's hair, all calm and shit because he's already spilled all over himself. “Fill me up, it's – go ahead, I want it, dude, I want it.”

That takes Cartman off guard more than anything. He's completely soft now, a third orgasm evading him, but he doesn't feel jealous when Stan groans and pumps his load into Kyle's welcoming ass. It's weird. Kyle wanted it, asked for it. Something is happening that Cartman is not entirely comfortable with. Kyle seems okay with all of this, and it's not hot, but it's actually making him sort of respect the little Jew bastard in a way. Kyle isn't as much of a disaster as Cartman assumed he would be, in terms of wibbling and having a stick up his ass about sex that would have to be forcibly removed, and despite all the giggling and Rocky Road ice cream he got his ace, his first choice, the fucking prom king. Cartman has to hand it to the bitch: he played an admirable game.

“Are you okay?” Stan asks when they've caught their breath. Kyle nods and reaches for the blankets, pulling them up and tucking them around Stan, then around himself. 

“I'm such a slut,” Kyle says, and Cartman has to contain a snort. 

“What?” Stan's got his hand in Kyle's hair, fingers combing through that frizzy Jew fro. “The hell? Why would you say that?”

“'Cause our first kiss was like five days ago! And I already – I mean, shit, I was going to hold out! Or wait, but—”

“Dude, we waited so long,” Stan says. “I've loved you since I was six. And even if I'd met you five days ago at a fucking fetish club, who cares? I think we'd still feel this way.”

“Which way?” Kyle asks.

“Like, for sure,” Stan says. “Forever, you know?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. He's grinning, bumping his face against Stan's in that deer-like way. “I know.”

Cartman has to wait hours to leave: they talk about nothing in particular, not even about Kyle's offense over whatever Kenny said, more about things that happened ten years ago and theoretic questions about what their lives might be like if this or that were different. He's never seen two people so weirdly energetic after sex, and half expects them to challenge each other to a push-ups competition. When they finally fall asleep it's a long, drawn out process of muttering and lethargic kissing, like they're afraid they won't have a billion fucking nights exactly like this for the rest of their pathetic lives.

When he leaves the stickiness in his pants bothers him in a way that it never has before.

Later he does his typical bored ass Saturday afternoon thing and goes to Butters' house. Butters has nothing better to do, as usual. He talks about some butterfly he saw through his bedroom window. He's grounded; Cartman is good at sneaking in.

"Hey," Cartman says, sitting on the bed beside Butters. "Close your eyes."

"Oh – okay!" Butters has closed his eyes probably a thousand times at Cartman's command, and if he's lucky he gets an orgasm out of the deal. If he's less lucky he's left holding some merchandise Cartman stole just before the cops round the corner.

Butters opens his eyes when Cartman kisses him.

"Hey!" Cartman says. Butters flinches. "Shut your eyes, I said!"

"Yeah, oh, golly, you did say that, sorry, Eric—"

Cartman shuts him up by kissing him again. It's better than he expected, the first time he's really kissed someone since Wendy when he was eight. It's not how he pictured kissing Kyle, because he never pictured that. He did most of the things he imagined doing to Kyle to Butters in lieu of the real thing, but this feels like something else, something real.

"Gosh," Butters says, and his eyes are all stupidly wet. "Thanks, Eric." He smiles, but his lips are shaking, and it takes Cartman a minute to work out that he's not scared, that it's something else. "That was real nice." Cartman shakes his head and wipes Butters' cheeks with his thumb. 

"This is your fault, Butters," he says, and Butters opens his pouty little mouth to ask why, probably, but Cartman doesn't give him the chance. He kisses him again, even nuzzles at him in that goddamn deer style, and it's so _fucking_ stupid that it feels as good as it looked like it would through the wooden slats of Kyle's bedroom closet. 

Kyle and Stan go to college in Denver, and Cartman stays in South Park to go to the community college, not because Butters' parents insist that he go there and commute from home. Halfway through the semester Cartman remembers his plans to figure out where Kyle's room is exactly, how to sneak in, and it just seems like too much damn work.


	10. Housebreak Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle thinks he's a cat. Stan adopts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in response to the many horribly flat "victim Kyles" in fandom. It's meant to be way over the top in response to that tradition, as parody, but I hope it also works as a sincere Stan/Kyle hurt/comfort story, too.

Stan's first inclination was to say "hell no." He did truly love Kyle, though they were strangers now, and had been devastated to find him under Cartman's control after years of searching, emotionally dismantled and clearly disturbed. Cartman was still insisting upon his innocence, saying it was always consensual, but the evidence suggested otherwise, and Kyle wasn't saying anything. He was hissing, sometimes growling, and was attempting to bite or scratch anyone who came near him, except for Stan, who he'd clung to when Stan carried him out of Cartman's lair. Kyle had been found naked, skinny, and covered in bite marks, and he had not stopped clinging to Stan, whenever able, since his rescue.

"This seems ethically unsound," Stan said when Kyle's doctors suggested that Stan play along with the pet scenario for a few weeks to see if it would draw Kyle out of his psychotic world. Kyle had been completely unresponsive to normal treatments, and was currently strapped to bed in a hospital room, wailing like a caged animal. Stan hated the thought of it. After all of Kyle's years of captivity, he was again confined. But his behavior was too erratic to leave him unrestrained, and he only calmed if Stan allowed him to sit in his lap or between his legs.

Which was awkward, because Kyle tore off and shredded any clothing the doctors attempted to force onto him, and though Stan loved his friend, he wasn't comfortable holding him in his lap while he was nude and rubbing his face on Stan's neck like a purring cat. 

"Look," the doctor said. "If you don't try this, we're going to have to commit him to some kind of institution, and I think that would do even more damage. With you, he seems happy. You're under no obligation, of course."

Stan sighed. No, he was obligated. He owed Kyle a chance at recovering slowly, in his own way.

"Fine," Stan said. "I can take a week off of work. But I can't commit to caring for him for the rest of his life." Sheila and Gerald had offered to, of course, but Kyle hissed at them as if they were strangers.

Stan was there when Kyle's restraints were undone, and he stumbled backward when Kyle sprung at him, not to attack but to cling, monkey-like, his arms circling Stan's neck and his legs clamped around Stan's waist. Stan got very hot when his hands slid down, instinctively, to support Kyle's weight. Kyle's bare ass cheeks were quivering with seeming delight as Stan tried to listen to the doctor's instructions.

"Can I ask him to not do that?" Stan said, wincing as Kyle licked his neck. 

"Well, you can ask," the doctor said. "I'm not sure how much language comprehension he has in this state."

Stan didn't ask. He allowed Kyle to lick him, because Kyle had let Stan wrap a blanket around him on the walk to Stan's car. Stan opened the passenger side door and eased Kyle into the seat, hoping he could get a seat belt on him. It was no use: Kyle squirmed away and went into the backseat, peed, then curled up in a ball away from the wet spot, seemingly dropping right into sleep. 

"Jesus help me," Stan said. He draped the blanket over Kyle and drove home very slowly.

Stan made sure his neighbors weren't watching and carried Kyle into the house. Fortunately, Kyle was groggy enough to leave the blanket on until Stan got inside. Kyle sprang away from him in the foyer and began crawling around the living room on all fours, sniffing things. 

"Well, um, anyway," Stan said as he watched this. "This, uh, is my place. Hey, what - don't!" he said when Kyle grabbed an old pizza crust off the coffee table and started gnawing on it. "That's weeks old!" Stan said, trying to get it from him. He hadn't been back to his place much since the discovery of Kyle, and hadn't had time to clean. Kyle whined but relented when Stan worked the crust from between his teeth. "Good boy," Stan said when Kyle had surrendered it. Stan felt dirty, as if he was playing into Cartman's game, but Kyle grinned at the praise and head-butted Stan's chest, rubbing himself on Stan's sweater.

Stan followed Kyle around the house while he explored the various rooms, watching with pity and unease as Kyle sniffed most things and chewed on some. The fading bite marks on Kyle's thighs and shoulders were hard to look at, and then there was the matter of his brazenly dangling cock and balls, but as soon as Stan approached Kyle with a sweater, Kyle ran away in a panic, still on all fours. Stan chased him into the kitchen.

"Stop, Kyle!" Stan said, because he was catapulting all over the kitchen and he'd already knocked the trash can over. "Sit!" Stan shouted, and he pointed to a place near his feet. Kyle was quick to obey, and he leaned down to lick Stan's left shoe. "Hey, no," Stan said. "That's dirty. No licking, Kyle. You just sit there and be good while I make us some dinner, okay?"

Kyle said nothing, but he looked up at Stan mildly and cocked his head, seeming to have understood. Stan reached down to pet his hair.

"Very good," Stan said. Kyle pushed up against Stan's hand, turning his face against Stan's palm for one timid lick. "Alright, I'm going to make Rice-a-Roni. Sorry, it's all I have. You need something more nutritious, though. God, you're so skinny. I'll go shopping tomorrow."

When the rice was finished, Stan portioned it out onto two plates and brought them to the table. Before he could pull a chair out, Kyle had leapt up onto the table, nearly toppling it. He buried his face in one of the steaming plates, scarfing the rice like a maniac. Stan could only stare as Kyle settled down onto his elbows, his ass still lifted while he ate. Stan's eyes wandered down to the most intimate regions of Kyle's ass, which was pointed in his direction. He suppressed a pang of arousal and looked away, disgusted with himself. He sat down at the table with a sigh and forked up some rice, though he'd mostly lost his appetite, and he didn't protest when, having cleaned his own plate, Kyle moved over and started in on what remained of Stan's.

Stan showered after dinner, and Kyle sat out on the bathroom rug, waiting for him to finish and occasionally nosing the shower curtain aside to peek at Stan, who found he didn't mind being naked in front of Kyle. It seemed only fair. He tried to invite Kyle in with him, but Kyle shied away from Stan's wet hands. Stan supposed that was for the best, because it would be too sexual to shower together. He would figure out how to bathe Kyle later. In the meantime, Kyle wasn't too dirty, having been cleaned by a nurse who he'd tried to bite while tied down at the hospital.

After Stan had toweled off, Kyle was quickly in his space again, rubbing on his legs and winding between them as Stan tried to brush his teeth and shave. He had to scold Kyle after his inference caused him to nick himself with his razor, and Kyle slunk away sadly. Stan felt guilty and hurried to finish. He found Kyle lying on the floor in the bedroom, halfway under the bed and peering up at Stan shyly. 

"Come on, get in bed," Stan said, pulling back the blankets. He was still wearing his towel, and he went to change into some boxer shorts while Kyle pranced around on the bed, kneading the mattress with his fists. When Stan turned back Kyle was rolling about in his sheets, sort of moaning with happiness, his eyes closed and his cock becoming erect. "Hey," Stan said, disturbed by this, especially when his own cock responded to the sight with an unwelcome twitch. "Be still. Get under the blankets." 

Kyle refused to get under the blankets. He didn't seem to want to be covered up with anything at all, but he was quick to cover Stan's body with his own once he got into bed, and he curled up against Stan's chest, his leg slung across Stan's thighs. Kyle's cock was very hard now, and he was humping Stan a little, still doing that happy-moaning thing. 

"Okay," Stan said. He sighed and pet Kyle's hair, knowing he'd never be able to sleep like this. "That's good, that's fine, just be still now." He gave Kyle's ass a tap to get him to stop the humping, but it didn't work, and he let Kyle lick his neck softly until he'd fallen asleep, his hips finally going still. Stan lay there staring at the ceiling and suffering with his own untended erection, wondering how the hell this was his actual life.

Kyle slept soundly, and Stan finally drifted off himself, but he was awakened just a few hours later, at dawn, when Kyle started stretching and yawning, writhing against Stan's side. They were both getting hard again, so Stan braced himself and sat up, hoping he could nap later. Kyle sat up, too, and Stan pet his hair, letting Kyle lick his cheek in wide swaths. 

"Did you sleep well?" Stan asked. Kyle answered by diving at Stan's cock and nuzzling it as if he hoped to get it out of Stan's boxers using only his face. "Hey, hey!" Stan said. He pulled Kyle up by his shoulder. "No," he said when he met Kyle's eyes. "That's private. Keep your face out of there." 

Kyle whined, but didn't go for the dick again. He resumed licking Stan's face, and Stan sat there, annoyed with himself for enjoying this bizarre affection. He'd missed Kyle so much, their closeness and familiarity with each other. As a teenager he'd had a crush on Kyle, and a curiosity about certain intimate things they didn't share. He grunted and pulled back when Kyle nibbled on his earlobe, intensifying his bleary arousal. "C'mon," Stan said. "Let's get some breakfast."

Kyle leapt out of the bed at the mention of food. Stan's fridge was truly empty now, but he found a frozen chicken pot pie in the ice box and popped it in the oven. Kyle crawled back and forth in front of the oven while it cooked, sniffing the air. When it came out, it was a struggle to keep Kyle away from it until it had cooled enough not to burn his tongue. Halfway through devouring it, Kyle seemed to notice that Stan had nothing to eat, and he pushed the pie tin toward Stan with his nose. Again, he was on all fours on the table. 

"That's okay," Stan said, though his stomach was growling. "You have it." 

Kyle pushed the tin toward him again, and Stan sighed. There was chickeny goo all over Kyle's mouth and chin, and a fat piece of crust dripped from the corner of his lips as he waited for Stan to take a bite. Stan hadn't gotten himself any silverware. He used his fingers to pluck out a piece of potato, in solidarity with Kyle.

"Yum," he said when Kyle went on staring at him as if expecting an answer. Kyle grinned and leaned forward to lick some chicken gravy from the corner of Stan's lips, getting more on Stan's cheek in the process, then returned to eating. Stan watched him with a weighty combination of heartache and contentment. This was insane, demented, but at least with Kyle here in front of him, on all fours or not, Stan could know that he was safe. After Kyle had licked the pie pan clean, Stan got a damp paper towel for Kyle's face.

Kyle sat in Stan's lap while Stan made a grocery list, and Stan found he didn't mind the personal space intrusion, even when Kyle wouldn't stop fidgeting or chewing on the collar of Stan's sweater. The past couple of years had been lonely, and dating had never felt right, to the point that Stan had vacillated between men and women on a regular schedule, trying to find something that worked. He was hardly assuming that this arrangement with Kyle could ever work, but at the moment he felt less alone, like he was half of an actual partnership, strange and temporary as this one was. When he was finished with his grocery list he set Kyle down gently on the kitchen floor, wondering if he should try to clothe him again. 

"I've got to go to the store," Stan said. Kyle crawled forward to hug Stan's legs. "Um, you can't come with me, but I won't take long." He could only imagine Kyle in the aisles of the store, even if Stan could get him to dress: he would tear things from the shelves and eat them off the floor. Stan hated the thought of leaving Kyle alone for a moment after what he'd been through, but they both needed food. "I won't be long," Stan said, and he leaned down to stroke Kyle's hair, trying to kiss his forehead. Kyle tipped his face up and pecked Stan on the lips instead. "Oh," Stan said, and he stood. "Um, thank you." Feeling like an idiot, he turned for the door.

He didn't even get as far as the steps of his front porch, however, before Kyle's panicked cries sent him hurrying back into the house.

"Okay, okay," Stan said when he was back inside, Kyle clinging to him and whimpering, trembling all over. "I was only going out for a minute, I wasn't going to leave you!" He pet Kyle's back and held him, both of them crouching on the floor in the foyer. Stan felt guilty. He should have known it was too soon since Kyle's rescue to leave him alone. When Kyle had calmed a little, Stan took his chin and brought Kyle's face up to his. "I won't leave you," he said when Kyle met his eyes. "I won't, dude."

Kyle's left eye twitched once, twice, and Stan felt badly for using their old name for each other. He picked Kyle up and carried him to the couch, still holding him and stroking his back while he reached for the phone with his free hand.

"What's up?" Wendy said when she answered. Stan sighed. 

"I need a favor," he said.

"Okay," she said, slowly. "What kind of favor?"

"Um, I need you to go grocery shopping for me. I'll pay you. I mean, obviously I'll pay for the groceries, but I'll throw in an extra fifty for your trouble." 

"Oh, Stan," she said. "Is this about Kyle? Honey, I know you're depressed, but if you get out of the house for a bit-"

"I'm not depressed," Stan said. "Or maybe I am, a little, but. The fact is, um. Kyle is here. With me."

Wendy was quiet for a moment. "In what sense?" she asked.

"In the sense that he's here. In my house." Stan decided not to mention that Kyle was in his lap, currently rubbing his face on Stan's sweater. 

"He's recovered?" Wendy said, sounding skeptical.

"Well. Yes and no." 

"Stan." 

"Wendy! Are you going to help me or not?"

She did, though reluctantly, and after giving Stan a lecture about how he wasn't a therapist and what Kyle needed was professional help. Stan pretended to agree with her and accepted the groceries when she arrived, holding the front door halfway shut. 

"Where's Kyle?" Wendy asked, trying to peer around Stan's shoulder.

"Having a nap," Stan said. It was true: Kyle was sleeping peacefully in a patch of light on the living room floor. "It's weird, you know, I've heard that victims of abuse have a hard time sleeping? Like they have nightmares, or insomnia? So far he's just out like a light whenever he wants." 

"I'm sure that doesn't mean he's fine," Wendy said. "This whole thing is crazy. Is he talking at all?"

"No, but I can tell he listens. Look, I know it's crazy, but he was miserable around everyone else, and he seems kinda happy around me. Isn't he owed a little happiness, after whatever Cartman did to him?"

"Of course," Wendy said. "But you might be setting him up for an even bigger fall."

Stan didn't believe that, though he was wary about what the continuation of this game might do to Kyle's fragile psyche. He put the groceries away and went in to check on Kyle, who was still sleeping, curled up with his arms and knees tucked to his chest. The visible bumps of his curved spine made Stan's heart heavy, and he went into the kitchen to make Kyle a snack plate of gooey cheese, sliced French bread and some good salami. These had been some of his favorites when they were in high school. 

"Let's try something," Stan said when Kyle woke and sat up on his knees, rubbing his forehead on Stan's shoulder sleepily. "Come over here, okay? You're going to sit on the floor, and I'm going to put this plate on the coffee table. And maybe you could eat with your hands?"

As soon as Kyle noticed the plate of food, he sniffed it once and grabbed a piece of salami between his teeth, gobbling it up. 

"Hey, no," Stan said. He moved over to the coffee table, and Kyle followed, crawling. "Wait," Stan said, sharply, when Kyle lunged for the plate head first. Kyle paused, looking at Stan uncertainly. "Let's try this," Stan said. "Sit up, on your knees. Good boy. Now I'm going to feed you, okay? Watch how I use my hands to pick up food."

Stan spread some cheese on a piece of bread and held it up to Kyle's lips. Kyle took a big bite, and slumped against Stan while he chewed. He ate the whole plate of food out of Stan's hand, and at one point leaned up to share a piece of salami with Stan, pushing it into Stan's mouth with his tongue. Stan blushed deeply as he chewed and swallowed, and Kyle leaned back to gaze at him, smiling. 

"Thank you," Stan said. "Do you want to try feeding me with your hand?" 

Kyle didn't. He wanted to lick the grease off of Stan's lips, apparently, and Stan let him do this for a moment before he realized it was getting too sexual, his own tongue beginning to twitch with the desire to answer the caress of Kyle's. He leaned back against the sofa, and Kyle pursued him, licking Stan's cheek and jaw before moving down to his neck.

"Hey, hey," Stan said, and he pushed Kyle back, gently. "Let's, just. Let's calm down."

Kyle whined and surged forward again, sucking at Stan's neck this time. Stan had to withhold a moan. Kyle had found a good spot, but Stan had to be stronger than this, for Kyle, who hardly knew what he was doing. He took Kyle's shoulders and pulled him away. 

"How about a bath?" Stan said. Kyle just stared at him blankly, so Stan stood, offering his hand. "Do you want to walk with me?" Stan asked. Kyle did not. He crawled around Stan's legs in circles a few times before clinging to one, humping Stan's ankle a little. Apparently, sucking on Stan's neck had aroused him. Stan just sighed and reached down to pick him up. His arms were getting tired, but Kyle wasn't very heavy. "I don't like seeing you crawl," Stan said. "It makes me sad. Okay? So I'm going to carry you around, if you won't walk."

Kyle seemed amenable to this. He laid his head on Stan's shoulder and sighed happily as Stan carried him to the bathroom. Once there, Stan set him on the counter near the sink and went to fill the tub. 

"Do you want bubbles?" Stan asked. Kyle's only answer was to pick up Stan's toothbrush and start licking the bristles intently. "Hey, good!" Stan said, encouraged. "You used your hand! Good boy," he said, and he heard himself slipping into the voice he had used with Sparky as a kid. He walked over to Kyle and took the toothbrush from him, rubbing Kyle's cheek with his thumb to distract him from the loss of a new toy. "That was good, Kyle. Very good, to pick something up with your hand instead of your mouth." 

Kyle grinned and dove forward to kiss Stan on the mouth. Stan allowed Kyle to nibble and suck on his bottom lip, briefly, as a reward for Kyle's progress.

"I'm glad you still like kissing," Stan said when he pulled back. Kyle was good at it, actually, though Stan hadn't reciprocated. His lips were still tingling as he carried Kyle to the bath.

Kyle whined when Stan put him in the water, but he calmed easily when Stan shushed him and picked up a soapy sponge to wash his back. He washed Kyle everywhere except his crotch, where Kyle's erection persisted. Given Kyle's level of self indulgence in this state, Stan was surprised he wasn't touching himself, especially when he moaned with pleasure as Stan worked shampoo into his curls, massaging his scalp. 

"Does that feel good?" Stan asked, heat creeping up along the insides of his thighs. Kyle just hummed in response, his eyes closed. He was too skinny, but Stan had always found him attractive and still did. It was wrong, though, and Stan could resist. He was a trusted caretaker, and he'd be no better than Cartman if he gave in and let Kyle paw at his crotch.

They spent the day like they had spent many weekends in high school: lounging around in front of the TV, snacking often, and falling asleep late in the afternoon, to the sound of an oncoming thunderstorm. The only difference now was Kyle's nakedness and constant affection, which Stan had stopped trying to fight, unless Kyle's hands wandered too low. Stan was hard from all the little kisses, and from the warm press of Kyle's body, and he slept fitfully as the thunder drew closer outside, waking from unsettling dreams of Kyle in chains. What he actually woke to was almost as upsetting for a moment, and he reared backward. Kyle was on top of him but facing away from him, his knees spread around Stan's body and his ass pointed at Stan's face, hovering just an inch away from his nose.

"Whoa, hey," Stan said, trying to sit up without burying his nose between Kyle's ass cheeks. He put his hands on Kyle's hips and guided him away from his face, gaping at Kyle when he turned back to give Stan an uncertain look. "What - what are you doing, buddy?" Stan asked. He turned Kyle around and gathered him against his chest. Kyle spread his legs, whining. His cock was still hard, bright red and leaking, and it made Stan wince to see how full he looked. It had to be painful. Those balls were probably _aching_ , throbbing with pressure and ready to burst. 

Stan got hard himself, thinking of this. He sighed. 

"You should take care of that if it's bothering you," Stan said. "You could go in the bedroom and, um. Touch it. You know? With your hand?" Stan made a jerk off motion in the air and Kyle nodded vigorously, hopping up to thrust his cock in the direction of Stan's fist. It ended up closer to Stan's eye, almost jabbing him there. "I can't do it," Stan said as he guided Kyle back down into his lap. "It wouldn't be right, okay?"

Kyle cried then, his lips trembling, tears coursing down his cheeks. Stan tucked him to his chest and Kyle clung, rubbing his cock on Stan's belly. He moaned when he did, his eyes dropping shut. Stan decided to allow it, though even this felt dirty. It only took Kyle a few seconds of frantic rutting before he was crying out in pleasure and spilling himself all over Stan's shirt. Stan held him while his orgasm wound down, and dried his cheeks when his tears kept coming.

"It's okay," Stan said. Every miniscule wiggle of Kyle's ass was making Stan's cock throb. "It's okay, it's, uh. Normal. Don't cry, you're fine." 

Kyle leaned forward to kiss him then, and, in a moment of weakness, Stan closed his eyes and opened his mouth, letting Kyle's tongue brush against his own. They both sighed, and Stan knew he should stop, but it felt too good. He gathered himself and pulled back, shaking his head.

"I can't," he said, whispering. Kyle whimpered and pressed his wet face to Stan's cheek. His hand had wandered down, and Stan spread his legs a little, pretending not to know where it was headed. "Ah," he said when Kyle gripped him through his jeans, rubbing - oh, felt so good, Stan needed to come, yeah-

"No, okay," Stan said, barely stopping himself from pressing his hand over Kyle's to encourage the touch. He got up from the sofa, leaving Kyle there, and stumbled toward the bathroom, dizzy with arousal. He only made it to the doorway before he had to tear his jeans open and grab himself. Just a few hard pumps and he was coming all over the bathroom floor, moaning. 

He supposed he should have foreseen it, but he was still a little groggy from pleasure and blinked when confusion when he looked down to see that Kyle had darted into the bathroom between his legs. He was licking the floor, lapping Stan's come up like it was candy. 

"Stop, Kyle," Stan said, moaning at the sight. He picked Kyle up and turned him around, his knees weakening when he saw his seed glistening on Kyle's swollen, parted lips. "Ugh, God," Stan said. "You can't lick the bathroom floor, that's disgusting. And you don't, uh. You shouldn't eat - that. Stuff. That came out of me." Stan groaned and shook his head, bringing Kyle to the sink. "Come on, let's brush your teeth."

The rest of the night was less eventful. Stan had wanted to grill some hamburgers, but the downpour and thunder had continued outside, so he started in on spaghetti and meatballs instead. Kyle stayed close in the kitchen, sitting near Stan's feet and watching him work. Stan talked to him throughout the preparation, describing what he was doing, and he realized partway through that he was desperately sad. He missed having Kyle respond, and hearing his commentary about every little thing. Stan had once been the quiet one who had zoned out and stared at Kyle's lips while he ranted.

Not wanting Kyle to bury his face in a plate of marinara-covered spaghetti, Stan brought their plates into the living room and sat on the floor beside Kyle, feeding him fork-fulls of pasta and meatballs that he'd cut into bite-sized pieces. Kyle was mostly patient, only diving down to scarf one meatball off the plate. Stan noticed that, despite Kyle's overeager eating habits, he'd been chewing with his mouth closed all this time.

"I wish you'd talk to me," Stan said later, when they were lying in bed together. They were face to face, Stan under the blankets and Kyle on top of them. Kyle was licking Stan's face, but not as hotly as he had earlier. These were softer, slower licks, like he wanted to reassure Stan that everything was okay. Stan mostly just pet Kyle's hair, but as the hour got later and the storm raged on outside, he began returning Kyle's affections, giving him a little lick in return for every one that Kyle gave him. Pretty soon they were kissing, arms wrapped around each other, and for a moment Stan felt like things were normal. He pulled back to look into Kyle's eyes, to see if anything had changed. "Dude?" he said, softly. Kyle blinked once and scooted down to tuck his face under Stan's chin. In a few minutes he was asleep, his nose whistling. Stan sighed and went on petting Kyle's curls until he could sleep, too.

The week that followed was odd to be sure, but Stan found little pockets of contentment within it, and had to admit that he enjoyed having Kyle near to him all the time, and the kissing, and even the rutting. It was wrong, he knew, but he loved the way Kyle came undone when he spilled himself onto Stan's thigh or against his side. He seemed most like his old self when he shuddered through an orgasm, and Stan wasn't sure why. He'd certainly never seen Kyle come back in the day, though he'd tried to picture it plenty of times.

Stan was depressed when the end of the week ended and the only progress Kyle had made was a willingness to wear Stan's shirts -- sometimes, not often -- and the occasional grab for food with his hand instead of his mouth. Despite this, when Kyle's case worker called Stan insisted he was surely on the verge of a breakthrough. 

"He trusts me," Stan said, confident at least about this. "I think his best chance for any kind of recovery is to stay here, with me." 

"Perhaps," the case worker said. "But we can only keep Mr. Cartman under house arrest as a suspected kidnapper until the end of the month. If Kyle can't give testimony against him before then, Cartman could legally flee the country." 

"I'll do what I can," Stan said, a powerful rage trembling within him when he thought of Cartman getting away with this, laughing his way onto a plane to Fiji.

On Monday, he had to return to work or risk losing his job as a research assistant to a colleague of his father's. Stan had taken the job out of desperation, and it had been offered to him as a favor to Randy. He wasn't looking forward to going back, and he spent all of Sunday night worrying about how Kyle would react to his departure in the morning.

"I know you can understand me," Stan said when they were cuddling on the couch together after dinner, Kyle wearing one of Stan's sweaters that was baggy on him. "So, look, I just want you to wait here for me tomorrow while I'm at work. The only way we can stay together is if I keep this job, so I can keep this house, and keep bringing home food and so forth. You know?" 

Kyle just gazed at Stan adoringly the way he always did. Stan groaned and hugged him closer. 

"Lick my ear if you understand," Stan said. "If - if you're willing to help me keep us together." 

Kyle went for his ear with enthusiasm, not only licking it but sucking on the lobe and nibbling it gently. 

"That's good," Stan said, and he opened for Kyle's tongue when Kyle moved to kiss him. They kissed all the time now, deeply and sometimes for an hour at a time, if they were in bed in the morning and still sleepy. Stan was in a honeymoon-ish love haze, and he knew he was insane for being so in love with someone who was so out of his mind, but he couldn't help it. He was still Kyle, and Stan had always loved him.

In bed that night, Kyle was especially frisky. Usually he ate a lot at dinner and came to bed full and sleepy, tucking himself to Stan's chest as soon as Stan climbed in with him. Tonight, for some reason, he was determined to touch Stan's cock. 

"You know I'm not comfortable with that," Stan said, taking Kyle's hands and holding both of them by the wrists. "Please, okay? If you want to have sex, you have to tell me. I not okay with non-verbal consent." There were so many other issues with the idea of fucking Kyle, but Stan was fixated on this one, hoping that, if Kyle wanted it badly enough, he would speak.

Kyle sighed huffily, and as soon as Stan released Kyle's hands he used them to rip off his sweater. Naked, he leaned back onto the pillows and spread his legs to show Stan how hard he was. Normally there was a sort of innocence to Kyle's actions, even if he was trying to put his mouth on Stan's crotch, but something about this was much more intentional and calculated. He was saying, without speaking: I know you want me. 

"You're putting a little weight on," Stan said, pinching the tiny roll of chub over Kyle's hip. "That's good." 

Kyle whined and thrust his hips toward Stan's hand, but Stan moved away in time and shook his head. 

"Dude, I need you to talk," Stan said. "Can you say my name? Hmm? Who am I? How can I even know that you remember my name if you won't say it?"

Kyle stared at him for a moment, then rolled over angrily, curling into a ball. Stan had seen him scared and sad, but this was the first time Kyle had seemed angry with him since his rescue. Stan decided it was a good sign, and settled in behind Kyle for sleep. After a few minutes of angry huffing, Kyle pushed back a bit, allowing Stan to spoon him.

Leaving for work the next morning was difficult. Kyle refused clothes and sat naked on the floor in the kitchen as Stan made breakfast for both of them. 

"Please be good while I'm gone today," Stan said. "Don't climb on anything you might fall off of, and don't eat yourself sick. You should eat, though - Christ. Don't forget to eat." 

He was sick with worry as he approached the front door, wearing his work clothes and carrying his backpack. Kyle only crawled as far as the doorway that looked into the foyer, and he put his cheek against the door frame, leaning there and staring at Stan miserably. 

"I know, okay?" Stan said. "I don't want to leave either, but I won't be gone long. Hey, c'mere." He went to Kyle and squatted down, cupping his face in one hand. "I'm not going to leave you," Stan said, softly. "Ever."

Kyle sighed and closed his eyes, turning his face against Stan's palm. He licked Stan there three times before Stan leaned down to give him a real goodbye kiss. Kyle seemed taken off guard by it, and they held each other's eyes for some moments afterward.

"See you soon," Stan said, and he pecked Kyle on the cheek before standing. Kyle didn't chase him to the door, and Stan waited out on the porch for a while, listening for any crying from within. Though he heard none, he felt terribly guilty as he walked to the car. After everything Kyle had been through, he should have what he wanted all the time, no exceptions. But Stan had to make money in order to give it to him.

Stan spent all day at work in a state of worry, making several mistakes that annoyed his boss. He wanted to call the house to check on Kyle, but he knew Kyle wouldn't answer the phone, and the ringing usually frightened him. When five o'clock finally came, Stan got home as quickly as he could, terrified about what he might find when he opened the door. What if Kyle had gotten into something poisonous - was he enough like a real animal to do that? What if he'd despaired in Stan's absence and hurt himself intentionally? Stan had no idea what to expect, but when he rushed into the foyer he supposed he should have guessed: Kyle, naked and on all fours, presenting his ass to Stan as if he expected to be mounted. He even appeared to have lubed himself up for Stan's convenience, and it looked as if he'd recently had a few of his fingers in there. Stan swallowed his shout of surprise and locked the front door behind him.

"Okay," he said. He put his backpack down and squatted to sit beside Kyle. "That's fine, you look very nice, but you don't have to greet me like this. If you want something done to your ass, you have to say so." Kyle was licking Stan's face madly as he gave this speech, and rubbing his erect cock on Stan's knee. "How was your day?" Stan asked. His heart had lifted immensely, despite Kyle's display. "Did you remember to eat?"

Kyle nodded, which was huge. Stan's eyes went wide, and Kyle seemed annoyed with Stan, or with himself. He turned around and began rubbing his well-prepared ass on Stan's knee, whining when he couldn't get a good angle for stimulating his hole.

"Hey, hey," Stan said, grabbing Kyle's hips to make him still. "None of that, now. Let's see what you managed to eat for lunch."

Stan went into the kitchen, and sighed when he saw that Kyle had ransacked a bag of Ruffles, which was torn open as if by teeth and lying on the kitchen floor, half empty. He had also left the fridge hanging wide open, and a jug of milk was overturned on the floor. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Stan had left for him on the table had been consumed, except for the crusts, which were scattered across the floor amid pieces of the broken plate.

"This is crazy, Kyle," Stan said, rolling his eyes at himself when he heard that understatement. "Your hands work perfectly fine." He went to the fridge and got out a beer before closing it. "I feel like you made this mess just to punish me for leaving you here by yourself," Stan said, and he groaned when Kyle ignored this statement, coming over to him only to rub his ass urgently on Stan's ankle. "Hey, no," Stan said, pushing him away with his leg. "I don't like that." 

Kyle's eyes went to Stan's crotch, and Stan grunted irritably, adjusting his erection. 

He went into the bedroom to change out of his work clothes, and Kyle followed. Stan's drawers had been pulled open and clothes were flung everywhere. Apparently Kyle had found Stan's vibrator along with his lube, and it was lying in the middle of the bed, still coated with lube. The sight of this and the thought of Kyle fucking himself with it desperately made Stan's mouth go dry. Stan had spent many a night fucking himself with that thing in the same manner, and it was never as good as being with another person. Kyle obviously wasn't satisfied, anyway. He was relentlessly rubbing his ass on Stan's ankles, whining as if he was in pain.

"You can figure out how to get a vibrator up your ass, but not how to close the fridge?" Stan said, and he felt badly when Kyle slunk away, crawling into the bathroom. Stan followed him in and found him rubbing his ass on the corner of the counter, wincing. "Jesus," Stan said, pulling him away from it. "Stop, please, okay? That's sharp, you'll cut yourself. C'mere." Stan sat down with his back to the wall and sighed, pulling Kyle into his lap. "I'm sorry I was mean," he said, touching Kyle's chin when Kyle wouldn't look at him. "You did very well by yourself here today. I shouldn't expect too much from you too soon, I know. Hey, c'mon, don't be mad. Give me a kiss?"

Kyle sighed as if this was a lot to ask, but he smiled and swooned when Stan pinched his left nipple. They kissed, and Stan took in the taste of Kyle like it was precious oxygen. He had a kind of Ruffles-influenced funk on his breath, but Stan didn't mind. 

"I missed you today," Stan said. Kyle moaned in agreement and met Stan's eyes before nodding once, twice. "That's so good," Stan said, whispering. "I mean, I like it when you answer my questions like that. Um, do - did you have a nice day?" 

Kyle shrugged, and he grinned when Stan laughed joyously at the gesture. Stan gave him a tight hug, and Kyle reveled in it for a few moments before reaching back and trying to bring Stan's fingers to his ass. 

"You're so single-minded," Stan said, shifting to accommodate his own erection. "I tell you what. I know it's a big step and kind of scary, but if you can ask for what you want, I'll give it to you. Okay? With words."

Kyle looked disappointed, but he didn't storm away. He took Stan's other hand and sucked on his two of Stan's fingers, swirling his tongue around Stan's fingertips. It felt ridiculously good, and Stan had to hold in a moan.

"You can't exactly talk with my fingers in your mouth," Stan said, but he left them in there, because sucking on them seemed to calm Kyle when he was feeling anxious. "Dude, really, nothing will change if you talk. I love you so much, okay? Please, don't be afraid to talk to me." 

Kyle sighed. He took Stan's fingers from his mouth and brought them down, begging with his eyes as he pressed them to his slick hole. Stan groaned and shook his head, curling his hand into a fist. 

"Just ask, Kyle," he said. "I know what you want, but I need to hear you say it. How about this - just say 'please.' One little word. If you say please, I'll put my fingers in there." 

Kyle whined and fidgeted, fretting. Stan rubbed Kyle's shoulders with his free hand, his other hand still in a fist and pressed over the crack of Kyle's ass. 

"C'mon, Kyle," Stan said. "It will feel so good, won't it? Hmm? Have you been thinking about it all day? How good it would feel to have me inside you?"

Kyle moaned, his eyes falling shut.

"I'm really good at it," Stan said. He uncurled his fist and rubbed his thumb over the cleft of Kyle's ass, just lightly, teasing him. "Or so I'm told. I'd do it for as long as you want, or until-" He realized he'd better go for the glory now, while Kyle was trembling with need. "Or until you're ready for my cock," he said, whispering this into Kyle's ear.

"Stan!" Kyle cried, the word bursting from him as if it was something painful that had been lodged in his chest. Stan stared at him, in shock for a moment. Kyle chewed on his bottom lip, shaking his head. "Please," he said, speaking softly now, bouncing in Stan's lap. "Please, please, please, please-"

Stan kissed him hard, tears burning in his pinched-shut eyes. Kyle's breath was coming loud and fast, and he was still whispering _please_ as they kissed. Stan pressed their foreheads together and nodded, tears pouring down his face as he reached down to rub Kyle's hole with two fingers. Kyle moaned and threw his head back, pressing into Stan's touch. Stan knew the responsible thing to do would be to interview Kyle about Cartman's mistreatment now, while he was willing to talk - but no, that would be too cruel, and Stan wanted this too much. They both sighed with relief as Stan's finger slipped inside Kyle's ass. He was tight, hot, and clenching desperately. 

"Dude," Stan said, sniffling. "Missed you." 

"Please," Kyle said, and he nodded. Stan worked another finger in, and Kyle came all over himself almost as soon as Stan touched his prostate. 

"Oh, Jesus," Stan said. "You were so ready."

"Unnnh," Kyle said, and he slumped against Stan's chest. "God, Stan," he whispered. He took a moment to recover, and Stan removed his fingers carefully, his heart pounding. So much was happening, and Stan was afraid he was handling it all wrong. He spread his legs as Kyle started working his pants open. 

"You want it in you?" Stan asked when Kyle grasped his naked cock. Kyle nodded vigorously, his cheeks still stained red from his orgasm. He always blushed for a good ten minutes after he came. "Grab that lotion," Stan said, nodding to a bottle on the counter near the sink. He didn't have enough patience, in this state, to figure out where Kyle had left the lube. Kyle shook his head.

"Don't need it," he said, his voice a timid little thing. Stan grunted, more turned on by the sound of Kyle's voice than anything else at the moment.

"Like hell you don't," Stan said. "Get it. That's right, good boy."

He wondered if he should drop the act, but Kyle was responsive, rubbing himself on Stan's thigh, already getting hard again. Stan slicked his cock and Kyle squatted over it, his hands on Stan's face. 

"Say my name when I push in," Stan said. 

Kyle did, whispering it against Stan's cheek like it was some sacred thing. This was sacred; Stan was still crying, his face soaked with tears. Kyle felt so good, trembling in his arms and squeezing around his dick, so warm and real and perfect. Stan was mumbling some of this against Kyle's lips, drunk with happiness. He hadn't been in anybody in almost a year, and this was Kyle, he was inside Kyle.

The actual fucking didn't last that long: Kyle bounced on Stan, moaning at the feeling of his cock, and Stan drove up into him a few times before exploding. It really felt that way, like he was blown to nothing for a moment. He recovered enough to remember that the hard heat on his belly was Kyle's erection, and they peered into each other's groggy eyes as Stan jerked him off. Kyle came with a squeak this time, shivering all over, his face so red. Stan licked Kyle's come off his fingers, though the taste wasn't great. Kyle's eyes got wet as he observed this, and he started licking, too, helping Stan clean his hand.

"You did so good," Stan said. He tucked Kyle to his chest, still inside him. "So, so good. I'm so proud of you. Kyle. I love you. God, and I missed you so much." 

"Stan," Kyle said, very softly, and it felt like a love confession. 

Stan kept the rest of the evening low key, because Kyle seemed exhausted. He cleaned Kyle up, put him in bed and brought his dinner there. He didn't ask Kyle to eat with his hands, just fed him every bite: fried chicken strips and tater tots. Stan used his fingers to feed Kyle, and he let Kyle lick the salt off his fingertips between bites. After dinner, they had a bath together, to wash away the smell of greasy food and sex. Kyle was so tired that he fell asleep against Stan's chest while Stan washed him. 

They both slept well and deeply that night. In the morning, Stan wasn't sure what to expect. Kyle was still asleep, and Stan let him remain in the bed while he dressed for work. 

"Hey," he whispered when he was ready to leave, beginning to worry about Kyle's sluggishness. Kyle woke only a little, and smiled when Stan kissed his cheek, his eyes falling shut again. "I have to go to work. Are you okay?"

Kyle nodded. Stan wasn't entirely convinced, and he moved down to kiss Kyle's neck, not wanting to be parted from the warmth of his skin. Kyle sighed and seemed to drift to sleep again.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Stan asked. 

"Yeah," Kyle said, his eyes still closed. "Fine." 

Suddenly it was a bit eerie to hear him speak. Stan kissed the top of Kyle's head and left. At work, he spent another full day worrying about Kyle. By the time he was packing up to leave the for the day he was sure that he'd made a huge mistake, having sex with Kyle when he was still so broken. He was holding back tears as he pulled into his driveway, praying that he hadn't ruined Kyle with his selfishness. 

Again, Kyle was in the foyer when Stan walked in, and again he was naked, but this time he was on his knees instead of all fours. Before Stan could even turn back to lock the door, Kyle had walked forward on his knees and was tearing at the button on Stan's pants, trying to get his cock out.

"Hey, hey, wait," Stan said. Kyle looked up at him and whimpered, rubbing his cheek against the bulge of Stan's dick. 

"Please?" Kyle said. He pressed kisses along the length of Stan's trapped dick, which was rapidly getting hard. "Please?" he said again, more softly.

"Okay," Stan said, still not sure what the hell he was doing. Kyle smiled and took him out. His mouth was wet and hot, and he took Stan in deep right away, the sight nearly making Stan's knees buckle. He ran his fingers through Kyle's hair, and Kyle moaned happily around his dick, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.

"Can I do you?" Stan asked after he'd come and Kyle had swallowed it down. Stan was still breathless, and he dropped to his knees to kiss Kyle's face. 

"Yes, Stan, yes," Kyle said, grinning. He got down onto all fours, turning to point his ass at Stan. For a moment Stan thought he was asking to be fucked, but Stan had just come, and Kyle didn't seem to have prepared himself.

"Oh," Stan said when he realized what Kyle wanted. Stan had never tried it before, but if he was willing to on anyone, it was Kyle. "Um, okay. Yeah."

He put his mouth on Kyle's ass, feeling stupid, and when Kyle laughed a little Stan pulled back and sighed, deciding to apply more finesse. He spread Kyle's cheeks and licked his hole in teasing swipes, pleased when Kyle gasped. Stan felt pretty accomplished for a first timer, and he reached down to stroke Kyle's cock and balls while he ate him out. Kyle came with a delirious moan just a few minutes into this process.

They both lay on the floor in the foyer afterward, Kyle still trying to catch his breath. Stan kissed him over the bridge of his nose, then licked him there.

"Did you trash the kitchen again?" Stan asked. 

"No," Kyle said.

"That's good. Do you want to walk there with me? I'm going to get a beer." 

Stan stood, and Kyle hesitated before taking his hand. He held Stan's hand very tightly as they walked together to the kitchen. They walked slowly, and when they got there Stan took his jacket off and put it on Kyle, kissing his forehead. 

"You did awesome," Stan said. "And the kitchen looks great, thanks for closing the fridge. You did eat, didn't you?"

Kyle nodded. He looked frightened, and again Stan wondered if he was doing the right thing. 

"Would you like a snack now?" he asked. Kyle nodded. Stan pointed to the dining room table and Kyle moved in that direction, but when Stan turned from the fridge Kyle was sitting on the floor, hugging the leg of a chair. At least he was still wearing the jacket. Stan sat on the floor with him, and they ate grapes and cheese, Stan feeding Kyle a few bites with his fingers before inviting him to take a piece of cheese from the plate. Kyle hesitated, his mouth quirking, but he used his fingers to pick it up, not his teeth.

Stan ordered pizza that night, low on groceries and too tired to cook. While they waited for it to arrive they curled up together on the couch, both looking at the TV, though neither of them were really paying attention to it. Kyle seemed tense, and he was holding on to Stan very tightly. 

"Are you okay?" Stan asked. 

"Yes," Kyle said, but he didn't sound sure.

"Want to-?" Stan asked, pressing his fingertips to Kyle's mouth. Kyle took them in gladly, and Stan could feel him relax as he sucked on them, his eyes drifting shut. "Good boy," Stan said, not sure if he should drop this terminology. Kyle's mouth got wetter around his fingers, and he nuzzled Stan's chest a little, his cheek resting over Stan's heartbeat. "My good boy," Stan whispered, stroking Kyle's hair. 

Throughout the week, Stan became better at striking this balance: asking Kyle to do practical things like walking instead of crawling, but giving him enough 'pet-like' treatment to make him feel comfortable. Kyle didn't talk much unless Stan was fucking him, during which Kyle mostly just moaned Stan's name, and _God_ and _yeah_.

"Do you want to talk about Cartman?" Stan asked one night when he'd perhaps had too many beers. He was curled up around Kyle in bed, his face buried in Kyle's hair. Kyle was wearing his favorite sweater, which needed a washing, his thighs clamped around Stan's leg. 

He had no response to the question about Cartman, and Stan decided to let it drop. Cartman's house arrest would be lifted in just two days, but Stan couldn't force Kyle to talk about him, and wouldn't want to. He had trouble sleeping that night, imagining Cartman bragging about his unpunished misdeeds in some foreign land.

It was a Saturday night, and when Stan woke on Sunday morning it was still early, just a little after dawn. It had begun to snow outside. Stan could see it through the window, from around Kyle's silhouette. Kyle was sitting up in bed, staring into space, his hands hugged around his elbows. 

"I lost my mind," Kyle said when Stan sat up, moving over toward him. 

"No," Stan said. He put his chin on Kyle's shoulder, his arm hugged around Kyle's back. "Well. Misplaced it, more like." 

"Is Cartman in prison?" Kyle asked. 

"Not yet," Stan said. His heartbeat sped up. He'd been afraid, all this time, to hear the truth about how bad it had really been. "You'll have to speak to the police." 

"About what?" Kyle turned to him. "They think he was - forcing me, or something?"

"Well. Yeah, I mean. He was, Kyle. You disappeared for almost a year, and as soon as we got a warrant to search his house, there you were. Naked, in his basement." 

"Oh, God," Kyle said. He moaned and got out of bed, going to the window. "No, that's not. But you'll hate me." 

"I could never hate you - what?"

"He was. It started out, anyway. He was my. Well, in the community we called it a dom." Kyle turned to peek at Stan. He'd gained some weight, but he still looked very small in Stan's sweater, the sleeves hanging over his hands.

"Like a dominatrix?" Stan asked, picturing Cartman's fat bulging from skintight leather. 

"Something like that," Kyle said. "Ugh, I didn't even want you to know I liked men. And certainly not that I'm - like this. I would go to clubs, but I was always too afraid to go home with anyone, and most doms are ugly, or old. Then one night, Cartman was there. And, well. All the angst from childhood made the sex really, disturbingly good." 

"Wait," Stan said, hurt by that. Hadn't he brought some angst from childhood to the table himself? "Cartman was your boyfriend?"

"Why do you think I stopped talking to everyone?" Kyle said, and he groaned. "I was so ashamed. It started out as just gross sex, but then one night I fell asleep in his bed, and suddenly we were living together. It was what I'd always wanted, in a way, because he was so good at demeaning me, and I could be on my knees twenty-four seven. He didn't even expect me to contribute to the rent. He wanted to control everything, and at first I guess I liked it, completely giving up control like that. But then I just got lost, and I couldn't snap out of it after sex. He was too good at breaking me down, and this petty little bully from my childhood had won. I was his slave, probably the one thing I'd feared most as a kid, and the thing that made the sex so good, because I could let go of that fear? Or give in to it? Jesus, I don't know. My whole identity was just serving him, I didn't have anything else left." Kyle put his hands over his face, and Stan hurried to him.

"It's okay," Stan said. "I mean - it's not okay, what he did, but it's okay that it happened, um. I still want you to press charges against him. He should have gotten you help when you got to that point."

"Are you kidding?" Kyle said. "That was Cartman's dream come true. He did everything he could to keep me in that - mode. But he thought I was enjoying myself. It's not like he was drugging me." 

"Maybe he was!" Stan said. Kyle shook his head.

"You don't know me as well as you think you do," he said, and that hurt, badly. "Or maybe now you do. You've seen - what I really am. Oh, God, I'm so ashamed," Kyle said, and he turned away, his hands over his face. "I peed in your car!" 

"Just that one time," Stan said. He took Kyle's elbows in his hands and kissed the back of his head. "Hey, no. Maybe you don't know me as well as you thought you did, either. Before this, anyway. Now you've seen how disgusting I really am. Jesus, you were unwell, confused, and I used that to get off.  
I'm no better than him."

"Oh, please," Kyle said. "I basically grabbed your fingers and jammed them up my ass." He turned around and stared at Stan's chest for a moment before meeting his eyes. "And you were just too sweet to reject me."

"Are you kidding me? Do you think I faked my erections? I'm so into this. It's fucked up, how much I look forward to meals now, because I know you'll eat out of my hand if I want you to. And I want you to. Apparently."

Kyle stared at him for a moment, checking his eyes, as if was looking for any signs that Stan was bullshitting him. It was something he'd done all the time when they were kids. He smiled slowly when he saw that Stan was serious.

"I like that, too," Kyle said. "The food thing. And just. Being this pathetic, gross creature that you have to take care of. Fuck, it's horrible, but. I love it." 

"It's not horrible," Stan said. "Or if it is, I'm horrible, too." 

"You're like my dream dom," Kyle said, and Stan had to hold in a laugh. "When I saw you in Cartman's basement - oh my God! I was in mindless sex toy mode, so I guess I assumed you'd be into it if I rubbed myself on you enough times."

"I am into it," Stan said, and Kyle laughed. He grabbed Stan's face and kissed him. Stan wanted to draw him back into the bed, wanted sex and intimacy, closeness under the blankets, but he wasn't really sure how to move forward with any of that. When Kyle pulled back, Stan could see that he was nervous about how to proceed, too. 

"The good thing about being crazy is that I had no shame," Kyle said. "When you started trying to talk to me, trying to get me to respond - there were cracks in the shame-proof shield." 

"Dude, you never have to be ashamed around me," Stan said. "This is just kinda. Who we are. Seems like."

"I can't be like this all the time, though," Kyle said. He put his hand over his face. "Oh, God. I hissed at my mother."

"Well. You were ill." 

"I have to rebuild my life!" Kyle said. He went to the bed and threw himself down onto it, face first. Stan followed and sat beside him, pushing his hand up under Kyle's sweater to rub his back. 

"I'll help you," Stan said. "I just want to keep you, dude. However you want to be kept." 

Kyle rolled onto his side and peered up at Stan.

"I don't think you realize how hot that is to me," he said. "The idea of being kept." 

"I think I have some idea, now," Stan said. 

They got back under the blankets and muttered together about how this could possibly work, touching each other idly as they talked it out. Stan didn't like it when Kyle crawled around on all fours, because it reminded him too much of his childhood dog. Kyle didn't like being told to put clothes on, because it made him feel insecure about his looks. Stan didn't like it when Kyle ate off the floor, but he loved hand-feeding him, and making the evening meal without consulting him about what he wanted. Kyle liked that, too, thankfully, and liked being able to stop talking when he didn't want to use words. Stan promised not to make him talk if he didn't want to. 

“But I do want to talk to you, though, dude,” Stan said. “When we're not doing sex stuff. I miss my best friend.” 

“I miss talking to you, too,” Kyle said. He scooted forward until their faces were pressed together, and for a moment his nuzzling was very pet-like. “But it's not just 'sex stuff,' okay? It's this whole lifestyle I want to lead, behind closed doors. I just need to learn not to lose myself in it.”

“I could help you learn,” Stan said. “Better than Cartman could, anyway.” He was bitter when he thought of Cartman cackling at Kyle's submission and misreading his devotion to the lifestyle as healthy behavior when Kyle couldn't differentiate fantasy from reality any longer. 

Stan wanted Kyle to at least try to charge Cartman with contributing to the delinquency of a mentally vulnerable person or something like that, but Kyle said whatever punishment Cartman suffered wouldn't be worth the humiliation of a trial about his sex life. After a couple more weeks of Kyle living in Stan's clothes – if he felt like getting dressed – he sent Stan over to Cartman's house to collect his things. 

"So your plot to get me falsely accused failed, I take it?" Cartman said, sneering at Stan as he walked around Cartman's bedroom collecting shirts that were much too small to fit Cartman and books that he lacked the intelligence to own. 

"There was no plot," Stan said. "I was sincerely worried about Kyle, and with good reason. You can't just let someone dissolve into their sexual delusions, you fucking bastard." 

"Right," Cartman said, and he scoffed. "I heard he's been living with you? I'm sure you haven't indulged any sexual delusions, Stanley." Cartman was giving him a sneering smile when he turned. 

"It's different with me and Kyle," Stan said, though he knew he should keep his mouth shut. He'd always been the one who told Kyle not to let Cartman rile him up when they were kids. "I'm not taking advantage of him." 

"Neither was I," Cartman said. "I was just giving the little cock slut what he needed."

"Obviously not," Stan said, and he had to hold himself back, his fingers twitching. Cartman would press assault charges before Stan's fist had even connected with his face. "Since he came running to me as soon as he saw me down in your basement. Jumped on me, wouldn't let me go, didn't even look back when I carried him outside. Kinda seems like he wasn't getting what he needed here."

"You'll see," Cartman said. "You won't be able to give that fucked up Jew what he really needs. You're too soft." 

"I don't think you know Kyle very well," Stan said, and he left, carting a box full of Kyle's belongings. His heart was still racing with anger, but by the time he was loading up the car he felt he'd won the argument. Maybe Stan hadn't known about Kyle's secret sex club life and what he liked to do there, but he knew _Kyle_ , and he knew him in a way that Cartman never would. 

He never knew quite what to expect when he came home, and he liked that, because he was always happy to find Kyle in sub mode, naked in the foyer, or in regular Kyle mode, curled up on the couch with a book and complaining that Stan was giving out his telephone number too freely, because telemarketers had been bothering him all day. Today, Stan at least had a suspicion about how Kyle would receive him, and he found that he was glad that he was correct. Kyle was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table, organizing the materials for his job search, a cup of tea steaming near Stan's laptop.

"I'm so sorry you had to see him," Kyle said when Stan came in. "Was it horrible?"

"He was horrible, but 'it' wasn't," Stan said. He put the box of Kyle's things on a chair and went over to kiss his cheek, wrapping his arms around him from behind. "And don't be sorry. I was glad to do it, so you didn't have to." 

"I suppose I'll see him around someday," Kyle said, and he groaned. "At the dry cleaner or something."

"Or we could move away from South Park," Stan said. 

"Seriously?" Kyle looked up at him. "But – your job." 

"I'm not saying right away, I just mean that if we could find jobs somewhere else, that'd be cool." 

They went to watch some TV together, and Stan had a beer while Kyle sucked on his fingers, and then on his neck. There was some fairly vanilla sex on the couch, and Stan left Kyle sleeping there while he went in to make crab cakes for dinner. When he came in with the food, Kyle was still naked, and he rubbed his face on Stan's neck in lieu of a verbal greeting. Though it was a bit of a mess, considering how much tartar sauce Kyle liked on his fried seafood, Stan fed him by hand instead of using a fork, carefully resting each morsel on the tip of Kyle's tongue and letting Kyle catch his fingertips in a lick as he took each bite. This was the best part of his day, and he knew Kyle loved it, too. That was what Stan had needed all along, something Cartman never would have concerned himself with: to know, because Kyle had told him, that he was happy like this, just like this.


	11. Present Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU (or is it) where Kyle is Stan's teacher. Stan puts Kyle over his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't written for the kink meme, but it's shameless porn and it belongs in this collection. Happy Fourth of July! America, Fuck Yeah!

Kyle is at work on a Saturday and it's Stan Marsh's fault. That's all he can think about as he sits at his desk trying to distract himself with his iPad, waiting for the star quarterback to show up for his third specially scheduled makeup test of the year. Stan is already half an hour late, and the clock is ticking. Kyle will not wait for the smug asshole for more than an hour; he doesn't care what the football coach and the principal say. This whole situation is reminding him of his own experience in high school: overlooked, unimportant, shadowed by jocks who treated him like crap.

When Stan finally saunters in it's forty-eight minutes past ten in the morning, which was when he was supposed to show up for his makeup exam. Kyle is seething. 

“Excuse me,” Kyle says when Stan goes to sit at his desk without acknowledging him, as if Kyle is just a piece of Teacher Equipment and not a person who deserves a greeting of any kind. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No,” Stan says, throwing his shoulder bag onto the floor. He looks half asleep, probably hungover, but he's still irritatingly handsome. He's a jock not of the thick-necked, barrel-chested variety but of the beautiful golden boy stripe. 

“It's nearly eleven. You're almost an hour late. I could flunk you, do you realize that? You'd lose your athletic scholarship.” 

“I'm sorry I was late, Jesus!” Stan says, abrasive as usual. He's been diagnosed with clinical depression which apparently makes it 'impossible' for him to show up to school more than a few times a week, and this is tolerated by the administration because of his gifts on the football field, but Kyle thinks it's bullshit, and that dealing with depression doesn't also give Stan the excuse to be such an asshole. “You can't flunk me for tardiness,” Stan says when Kyle just stares at him, fuming. 

“Get up here,” Kyle says, sliding the test across his desk. “You have half an hour to finish this.” 

“Half – I'm supposed to have an hour, though.” Stan walks to the desk, frowning, and grabs the test. “There's, like, a shitload of essay questions!” he says, flipping through it. 

“Watch your mouth. Maybe you should have considered the essay questions when you decided to take your sweet time getting here. I can't stay here indefinitely while you puzzle over your word choices. I have plans this afternoon, Mr. Marsh.” 

That's a lie, and when Stan looks up from the test it's like he can see this all over Kyle's face, which begins to get hot. Stan sniffs and throws the test down on Kyle's desk. 

“So I'll come back tomorrow,” he says. “I need an hour.” 

“I'm busy tomorrow.” Another lie, unless his laundry qualifies.

“After school on Monday, then.” 

“As if you ever show up on Mondays. This is not a negotiation, Stanley. Take the test and finish as many questions as you can.” 

“What about the ones I can't finish?”

“Incomplete or missing answers will be deducted from your grade.” 

“This is bullshit!” 

“I asked you to watch your mouth. Do you want to serve detention after you finish?”

“I don't know,” Stan says, and Kyle catches a whiff of whiskey on his breath, hopefully from last night and not this morning. “Do you want to suck my balls, Mr. Broflovski?” Stan says, rising to his full height, defiant and staring at Kyle like he knows the coach and principal will forgive him for anything.

“Sure,” Kyle says, sitting back in his chair, so fucking tired of this kid's entitled attitude. “Present them.”

This takes Stan off guard as effectively as Kyle hoped it would, and now he's the one turning red, wide-eyed for a moment before he frowns. And reaches for his zipper. 

“Whoa, wait,” Kyle says, sitting forward again. “Stop, I was joking.” 

“I wasn't,” Stan says. He unzips his jeans and reaches into his boxer shorts. Kyle feels like he's underwater in a dream, his mouth hanging open as he watches Stan Marsh flop his large, flaccid cock and balls onto the front of his desk. Stan is breathing hard, still frowning at Kyle angrily, his cock rapidly becoming less flaccid. Kyle's is similarly affected, and he can't seem to otherwise move or make his voice work. “There you go,” Stan says, his voice a little choppy, as if he's finally met a situation that makes him nervous, though he doesn't flinch except to press his hips forward, flush with the desk. “Suck away.” 

Kyle can't take it anymore, his rational mind melted away by a dizzying combination of rage at this insolence and arousal at the sight of that big, mouth-wateringly uncut dick. He springs out of his chair, walks around the desk, and shoves Stan around to face the desk again when he turns. Stan has at least fifty pounds on Kyle, is a couple of inches taller and could easily resist, but he must be too shocked to compute what's happening, because he allows Kyle to push him over the front of the desk, landing against it with an 'oof.' 

“You're out of control,” Kyle says, though this applies more to him than Stan. He yanks the back of Stan's jeans and underwear down, exposing his muscular ass, and pushes the back of Stan's t-shirt up so he can have a full, perfect view of it before his hand comes down to spank the left cheek hard.

“Ow!” Stan yelps, and Kyle spanks him again, harder. “Stop it!” 

“Who do you think you are?” Kyle asks. He lands another blow on Stan's ass, which has begun to blush from the abuse. Kyle is incredibly hard now, insane with lust and the flush of long-repressed power. “You're just a little boy,” Kyle says, grunting as he spanks Stan again and again, enjoying the sharp sound his blows make, and the firmness of Stan's muscle against his palm. “Aren't you?”

Stan pushes off the desk with a grunt and whirls on Kyle, grabbing him. His face is bright red, his teeth bared, and Kyle thinks for a moment that he just incited the boy to murder, but Stan doesn't hit him. He shoves Kyle down hard, onto his knees, and thrusts his now fully erect cock against Kyle's face. The heat of it feels like a branding iron against Kyle's already burning cheek. 

“Suck it,” Stan says, glowering down at Kyle. He's breathing in great heaves, his jeans and boxers pooled around his ankles now. “Suck my dick, Mr. Broflovski, and maybe I won't tell anyone what you just did to me.” 

Kyle's mouth grows wet immediately, obediently, and he hates that he's not only forced himself into this position but that he actually _wants_ to suck this cocky kid's dick. It's thick and long but not too much of either, and the foreskin gives it a heavy look that makes Kyle want to taste, to know what that will feel like on his tongue. He groans when Stan puts a hand in his hair and pulls, bringing him closer, bumping his cock against Kyle's bright red face again. 

“Go on,” Stan says, mockingly gentle. “Rumor is you love cock, and I can see it on your face. Suck on it like a good little slut. There you go,” he says, speaking softly when Kyle's lips part around his cockhead. The nervous tremor is back in Stan's voice, but only faintly. “Yeah,” he says, rasping this out as Kyle laps at him, tasting pre-come from the slit before suckling at the head. “Jesus, fuck,” Stan moans, his grip on Kyle's hair tightening. It hurts a little when he tugs, but not enough to dissuade Kyle, who is so hard in his pants he feels like he'll go off untouched. He sighs around Stan's cock as he takes it in more deeply, his eyes fluttering shut. He hasn't sucked a cock this nice since college, and Stan tastes good, like the clean salt of athletic sweat, with a hint of denim.

“Good boy,” Stan says, and Kyle is humiliated but extremely aroused. Being powerless to someone like Stan shouldn't feel so good, but it does, and Kyle spreads his knees apart on the floor, pushing down on Stan's cock until he gags a little and has to pull back. “Damn,” Stan says, and he sighs contently, hips beginning to twitch. “Look at you, drooling for it. Yeah, suck that big dick. You like that, don't you? Hmm?” He tugs Kyle's hair and Kyle nods, breathing hard through his nose, his mouth still full of Stan's cock. He looks up at Stan when he begins to bob his head, wanting to sink deeper into this submission by showing it to Stan, unguarded. He reaches for his own dick, kneading himself desperately through his pants. Stan grunts and gives Kyle's hair another tug. “No,” he says. “Don't touch yourself. Wait. If you're good, maybe I'll let you come when I'm fucking your ass.” 

Kyle moans and bobs his head faster, wanting that. He hasn't been fucked in over a year. He's developed trust issues. Letting go of them, of everything, feels incredible, and he wants the whole package, wants this big cock up his ass and Stan thrusting recklessly into him for hours, days. 

“You want that?” Stan asks, and he strokes his fingers through Kyle's hair. “Yeah, you do. Get it real wet for me. That's good, like that. I'm gonna put that dick right up your ass. Gonna fuck you over your own desk.” 

Kyle moans, his eyes sliding shut. He's leaking into his briefs, pre-come pooling so heavily that it's soaked through the cotton. 

“Bet you've got cobwebs in that neglected hole,” Stan says, still stroking Kyle's hair like he's a well-behaved pet. “You're such a dweeb, shit. How long has it been? I bet it's been years since you had that hole filled up good, since you had a real man's dick up there.” 

“Not that long,” Kyle says, pulling off to glare up at Stan, unable to resist defending himself. He's panting, his face wet with his own spit. Stan smirks and wipes Kyle's chin dry. 

“It's been a long time, though,” Stan says, pushing two fingers into Kyle's mouth. “I can tell.” Kyle sucks on Stan's fingers, sighing, glad to be filled again. It does _feel_ like it's been years, and his last few trysts were unsatisfying. “Alright,” Stan says, pulling his fingers free abruptly. He clears his throat. “Get your pants off and bend over the desk. I'm gonna fuck you right on top of that exam, and when I'm done, when you're all stretched out and my come's dripping out of your grateful hole, you're going to sit there and write out all the answers for me, put my name at the top of the page, and give me a fucking A+. Got that?”

“Yes,” Kyle says, his voice small and breathy, heart hammering. It's so wrong: fuck Stan. But getting fucked by him seems much more important than fairness, Kyle's pride, or literally anything else at the moment, so Kyle stands on his shaky legs and unbuttons his pants. 

“That's right,” Stan says. He kicks off his shoes and steps out of his pants and underwear, walking around to the back of Kyle's desk while Kyle undresses. “You got any lube in here?” Stan asks, rifling through Kyle's drawers. “You've got to, for when you sit here after hours and jerk off to pathetic fantasies like the one that's about to come true – ah, here we go.” 

Stan has found Kyle's small bottle of Neutrogena hand lotion. He really does use it for his dry hands, sometimes. He has jerked off here before, and his face is blazing as he leans over the desk, one of his elbows resting on the blank exam. He has thought about Stan while masturbating – about punishing him, spanking him, making him wibble and beg for Kyle to be gentle. It never even occurred to him that he'd prefer this treatment. 

“Yeah,” Stan says when he comes to stand behind Kyle, reaching down to hold Kyle's chubby ass cheeks apart. “Mhmm, yeah. Bet that's a tight, sweet little hole.”

“Oh, god,” Kyle whimpers, trembling. He rests his cheek on the desk and spreads his legs a little wider while Stan teases the pad of one dry finger around his hole, laughing low in his chest when Kyle clenches for him. 

“You need me to finger you?” Stan asks.

“No,” Kyle says, because he can't wait; his cock is painfully untended and he feels so empty, like he's been waiting a lifetime for this particular dick to slide into him. “Just go slow, please.”

“Aww, okay. Since you asked nicely. You're much friendlier when your ass is spread open for a dick, begging to get fucked.” 

“I like you better like this, too,” Kyle says, not wanting him to have every last word. He's going to add some kind of smart ass rejoinder, but Stan's slicked cock bumps against his hole before he can come up with anything, and the feeling takes the breath right out of him. 

“Should I spank you a few times?” Stan asks, massaging Kyle's left ass cheek in one hand. “Your ass is so soft, bet my hand would sound great bouncing off this bubble butt.” 

“Please,” Kyle says, letting out one dry sob. “Just put it in me. I need it.”

“I know you do. All the guys say so. 'That Mr. Broflovski, that history teacher, he needs to get laid, man.' They probably think you need a chick, but I could see what you really need.” Stan starts to press in, and for a moment Kyle is panicked, because he feels so thick and it's been so long. “Yeah,” Stan moans, going almost excruciatingly slow as he presses in past the first tight barrier of muscle, deeper. He's savoring it, taunting Kyle with every half inch that sinks into him. “I knew you needed this,” Stan says, his voice a little strained, breath faster already. “To be buh – bent over, pushed down, ass up, and taught some respect with a big, fat cock as your teacher.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Kyle says, whimpering. 

“You – ahh – you disagree?”

“No, god, you're right, I need it.” Kyle cries a little, stretching his arms out in front of him and grasping the edge of the desk, the other side digging into his belly. “I need you to fuck me so hard, Stan.”

“Mhmm, I know you do.” Stan rubs Kyle's back as he continues to sink in slowly, and it's actually sort of tender: this touch, and the care with which he's entering Kyle. “Be patient. Gonna fuck you real hard, Mr. Broflovski.” 

“Please – call me Kyle.” 

A peel of giddy laughter bursts from Stan then, and Kyle scowls against the desktop, annoyed. This is serious.

“Okay, um,” Stan says, reeling himself back in. “Kyle.”

When he's all in they both groan, Kyle's shoulders going limp with relief, a puddle of drool forming between his open mouth and the desktop. Stan sighs and grips Kyle's waist, rubbing his thumbs over the small of Kyle's back. 

“Damn, that feels good,” Stan says, mumbling this in a triumphant drawl. “You're so tight.” 

“Feels good,” Kyle agrees, also mumbling, drowsy with pleasure, all the tension drained out of his upper body. He's up on the balls of his feet, feeling like he could let them leave the floor completely and just be held in place by Stan's cock, pinned. 

“You look fucking hot like this,” Stan says, his thumbs stroking over Kyle's skin a little more vigorously, making him shiver. “Bending over for my dick. Drooling on yourself before I can even start fucking you. God, you love it, don't you?” 

“I love it,” Kyle agrees, with another dry sob. “I'm so full, god, you're big, so deep—”

“Mhmm, I knew it. I could tell by the way your bubble butt moves when you walk. The kind of greedy ass that needs to be stuffed full of dick, right?”

“Right! Yes, Jesus, yes—”

“Alright, hold on to the desk. Gonna give this cute ass what it needs now.” 

Kyle moans when Stan starts to move, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk. Stan starts off slow, teasing him with friction that's just barely enough, and when Kyle starts keening, pressing back to beg for more, he grunts and picks up the pace, snapping his hips. 

“Man, I wanted this,” Stan says, huffing his breath now. “Wanted to watch my balls slapping against your ass while you cried on my dick. Yeah, _fuck_ yeah—”

Kyle makes an unintelligible, wordless noise and comes all over the desk when Stan slams against his prostate with two hard thrusts. 

This sets Stan off, and he growls victoriously, increasing the pace and strength of his thrusts, jamming Kyle's spent and oversensitive cock against the desk in the process. Kyle cries out in brainless pleasure, squeezing around Stan's dick and wanting to hold it there forever, to hang on to this helpless feeling. He feels like he's been fighting something or other all his life, always tensed for battle and needing to grapple for every ounce of respect he gets, and it's amazing to finally let go, to press his cheek into a puddle of his own drool and moan shamelessly while a younger man fucks his ass so hard that he knows he'll still be feeling it on Monday, when he sits down to teach the class that Stan probably won't bother to attend. Kyle doesn't care; he'll give Stan high marks on the test, let him ace the class, anything.

“Here it comes,” Stan says when Kyle's ass is sloppy and loose, fucked open wide. “Gonna fill you up, here comes the jizz that's going to be leaking out of you while you – ah – while you do my test for me, gratefully, because I fucked you so good.” 

_So well_ , Kyle thinks, but he doesn't bother to correct Stan's grammar, can't even form words at the moment. He's wailing, nodding, grateful already and getting hard again while Stan squeezes his hips tightly enough to leave bruises. Stan cries out when he comes, and if this were a real school, Kyle would be terrified that a weekend janitor could hear that and come running. 

“Oh jesus,” Stan says, collapsing onto Kyle's back, still in him. “Jesus, fuck. Kyle.” 

“Yes?” Kyle is still humming with pleasure, considering a second orgasm, but the part of the desk that's digging into his stomach is becoming unpleasant and he's ready to end the game. Stan kisses the back of his neck, his mouth hot and wet, panting. 

“That was the best one we ever did,” Stan says, nuzzling him. 

“Mhmm, yes, that was so good. I still think the prison guard and inmate game is the best, though.” 

“Aw, that one's mean.”

“This one is, too! You called me a dweeb.” 

“Sorry, dude.” Stan pulls out then, running his hands down Kyle's sides as he leans up off of him. “I was talking about your character, not you.” 

“Ha,” Kyle says. He was actually a dweeb in high school, probably still is, and Stan was actually the quarterback, though never as disrespectful to teachers as Kyle likes him to be when they play this game. He gets up off the desk and smiles drowsily at Stan, who looks nervous that he's actually hurt Kyle's feelings. He's wearing his old jersey from high school; he hasn't played football in ten years but it still fits him well. “C'mere,” Kyle says, pulling him in for a kiss.

“Sorry I laughed,” Stan says, muttering this against Kyle's lips. “Just, you were like, 'please, call me Kyle.' Like we were at a wine tasting or something.”

“It was kinda funny,” Kyle says, grinning. “But I hate it when you break character when things are just getting really good!”

“I know, I'm sorry.” 

“Don't be sorry. You were wonderful. Are wonderful. My quarterback boyfriend.” 

They make out with Kyle sitting on the desk and Stan between his legs, leaning down to kiss him, until Kyle thinks about the mess he's making, his ass leaking all over the polished wood. They're in his office at home, in the middle of a long weekend during which they're determined to have lots of kinky sex. They've been married for five years, and Kyle is concerned about keeping things fresh. 

“Want to hit the showers with me?” Stan asks while Kyle stands surveying the mess on the desk, feeling more like falling into a nap than showering or cleaning up the scene of their roleplay. 

“I guess I should,” Kyle says, sighing. “And we have nothing for dinner. I'm starving.” 

It's strange to return to the mundane details of real life after slipping so deeply into a fantasy – Kyle has established a very complete back story for his teacher character, who he sometimes writes original gay erotica about online – but it's nice to walk naked upstairs to the shower, holding the quarterback's hand the whole way.


	12. Black Tie, Striped Stockings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde has a secret Halloween costume for Token's eyes only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this back in 2011, and it was inspired by [this Token/Clyde fan art](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/hollycomb/1361734/179980/179980_original.jpg) by [浅見](http://www.pixiv.net/member.php?id=300830) on Pixiv.
> 
> Adding a few older porn stories to the collection today - these were all originally posted on my formerdinosaur Livejournal.

  
  
Clyde shows up around six, wearing jeans and a Broncos jersey. He looks like he just woke up, which makes Token smile, because Clyde was bouncing off the walls at school all day on a sugar high, and he must have crashed when he got home. Token is already dressed for the party and has been for some time, because he likes wearing things like this: a three piece suit, a tie, polished shoes borrowed from his father. He's wearing his father's watch, too, and drinking his father's brandy, because his parents have already left for their friends' Halloween party in Denver.  
  
"Do you have a tie I can borrow?" Clyde asks as he pours brandy for himself. He looks hilarious holding a crystal decanter, throwing brandy back like it's a shot of Jack.  
  
"A tie?" Token says. He hasn't seen Clyde wear one since Kyle Broflovski's bar mitzah four years ago.  
  
"Yeah, for my costume," Clyde says.  
  
"Is that what's in the bag?" Token gestures to the duffel that Clyde dropped by the bar before helping himself to a drink.  
  
"No, that's just my spend the night stuff. Here, get me a tie and I'll show you."  
  
Token raises an eyebrow, and Clyde blushes, maybe just because they're talking about the spend-the-night. Lately, the spend the nights have gone in something of a new direction. The sort of direction that's making Token wonder if it would be okay to just grab Clyde and kiss him now, because he's still blushing, and his hair is messy, and his mouth probably tastes like fun size Milky Way bars. They have yet to do anything prior to midnight and without the cloak of darkness in one of their bedrooms, so Token just takes Clyde by the elbow and pulls him upstairs.  
  
"You haven't said what you think of mine," Token says, gesturing to his outfit as they make their way into his room.  
  
"Oh, is that your costume? I thought you were just lounging around acting rich."  
  
Clyde is avoiding looking at him, strolling around Token's room like he suddenly needs to examine its same-as-always contents, and Token wonders if Clyde thinks he looks hot. It's so stupid to have to worry about that after something like fourteen years of friendship, but Token thought about it when he was getting dressed, and he's thinking about it now.  
  
"C'mere," he says from his closet, waving Clyde over. "I've got like eighty-five ties for you to choose from."  
  
"I want the most expensive one," Clyde says. He hurries over to examine Token's custom-designed, mahogany tie rack. "So I can spill Bud Light on it."  
  
"Naturally," Token says. The urge to kiss Clyde is rising, so he distracts himself with the ties, pretending to carefully select one. It's a good thing they can walk to Cartman's house, because he's possibly already a little drunk. "What will you be wearing it with?" Token asks.  
  
"This," Clyde says, holding out the hem of his jersey. "I'm a Monday morning quarterback. Get it?"  
  
"Cute," Token says, accidentally. He picks up a tie and holds it against Clyde's shirt. "How about this one?" It's green with a white and gold paisley pattern, pretty expensive-looking.  
  
"Sure," Clyde says with a shrug, and Token hands it to him. Clyde stands there staring at it for a moment before giving Token a helpless look. "Can you put it on for me?" he asks. "I forget how to do it."  
  
"Like your dad doesn't just do it for you every time," Token says. He teases Clyde for being coddled just as often as Clyde teases him for being rich. They envy each other. Token's father is away on business more often than not, and his mother is on twelve committees in South Park alone. They both have political responsibilities in Denver, too. Token loves them and admires them and is grateful to them, but Clyde's father bakes him brownies and and comes to every single football game. Sometimes he even comes to the practices, with brownies for everyone.  
  
Token puts Clyde's tie on for him, and he can feel Clyde watching him, thinking that yes, he does look hot, and it feels pretty good. Still, when their eyes meet and their gaze persists after the tie is loosely fastened around Clyde's neck, they don't kiss. But they could. Token can feel that now. He balks, looking down at his dad's watch. It's worth a couple thousand dollars, probably, and completes his costume, which most people at the party won't think is much of one.  
  
"Should we go?" Token says. "If we show up early, we can leave early." Neither of them are big on prolonging parties with the rest of the team, especially not when they take place at Cartman's house, which they usually do, since his mom lets them drink. Token just likes to go, get a little hammered, and pull Clyde home by his belt loop. Clyde nods.  
  
"We should go," he says. "And we shouldn't stay very long."  
  
"Absolutely not." Their eyes lock again, and they're both so obviously thinking about later, what they'll do in this room, in the dark, that Token avoids this kiss not because he's a chicken shit but because if he kisses Clyde now they'll never make it to the party.  
  
The walk to Cartman's house isn't far, but Token is sweating a little under his clothes despite the cold. Too many layers. Clyde is talking nonstop about last Friday's game, which is what he does when Token gets quiet, as if Token is going to spontaneously decide that Clyde is too boring to tolerate any day now. Kids are running around in costumes, neon pumpkin buckets swinging in their hands. It makes Token think about their old trick or treating group, and the slumber parties afterward, when they would trade candy. Craig was always a ruthless negotiator, and Clyde would often end up in tears, somehow talked out of the majority of his Snickers bars. Tweek would be in great spirits, everyone so hyped up on sugar that they were operating on his level for once.  
  
"I wonder what those guys are doing tonight," Token says, because he knows Clyde is thinking about them, too. Clyde pulls on the end of his tie, shrugs.  
  
"They probably go to Kevin's party," Clyde says.  
  
"Kevin has a _party_?"  
  
"Well. He has the rest of the dorks over to watch horror movies, I think."  
  
The rest of the dorks. How did Craig Tucker become one of those? He got mad at Token and Clyde for joining the football team without his permission. Token was tired of letting Craig assume the role of ringleader. He put his hand out, metaphorically, and Clyde escaped Craig's dominion along with him. Token has only started missing Craig recently, because he wants someone to talk to about this thing that's going on with Clyde, the stuff that happens in the dark on Saturday nights and the plans they're making to go to college together. He's pretty sure that telling Craig about any of it would be fifty percent wanting to gain his perspective on the matter and fifty percent straight up bragging, but that's sort of how his friendship with Craig always was.  
  
Cartman's party is the same party he had three weeks back, plus costumes and paper skeletons taped to the walls. It's pretty much everybody from the team and their significant whatevers: quarterback Stan with omnipresent Kyle, wide receiver Kenny with his bimbo of the moment, the running backs and the linebackers and defensive tackle Cartman, who is dressed as some kind of old man with robes and a beard. Butters, the most whatever of all of their whatevers, is beside Cartman as usual, and he's dressed as the Constitution or something, his head sticking out from a big roll of butcher paper with a belt robe tied around the middle.  
  
"What the hell are you supposed to be?" Cartman asks Token. "Obama?"  
  
"I'm an investment banker," Token says, knowing that Cartman won't get the joke, at least not on the level that Token is making it. He's become accustomed to other people in South Park not getting it, though there is the status of his whatever with Clyde, which some of the guys on the team definitely get, even if they don't talk about it.  
  
"And what are you?" Cartman asks Clyde, not risking a comment about Token's choice of costume. Token has kicked his ass before. "A gay Bronco?"  
  
"A Monday morning quarterback," Clyde says, and though Token doesn't look and it's too dark with Halloween mood lighting to see anyway, he knows Clyde is blushing. "What the fuck are you? Moses?"  
  
"Close!" Cartman says, grinning.  
  
"Oh, God, don't get him started," Kyle says, walking over with Stan. They're dressed as each other, the same schtick they've done for the past three years. Kyle is wearing Stan's letterman jacket and a very vintage SAVE THE WHALES shirt, and Stan is an exaggerated version of Kyle, wearing a sweater vest, starched oxford shirt and corduroy pants.  
  
"I'm a Talmudic scholar," Cartman says, adjusting his huge, dark-rimmed glasses. "And Butters here is a Dead Sea Scroll."  
  
"I don't get it," Clyde says.  
  
"I wouldn't expect you to," Cartman says.  
  
"There's nothing to get," Kyle says, scowling. "He's just being an asshole."  
  
"Gee, Kyle, and I thought you'd be flattered! I was just trying to make you feel more at home among, you know, actual men."  
  
"Shut up, Cartman," Stan says, and he squeezes Kyle's shoulder to bring him down from the rant he was about to launch into. "That costume is awesome," Stan says to Clyde, who grins. Token is a little jealous, though it's pointless. Stan is the most sought after piece of ass in school, but everyone's attention just seems to exhaust him when he's not on the field, and he doesn't even look twice at anybody but skinny, awkward, pimple-faced Kyle, who looks even smaller than usual with Stan's jacket dwarfing him, the sleeves hanging over his hands.  
  
"Nice watch," Kenny says, appearing at Token's shoulder. Token turns to smirk at him, accepting the beer that Kenny pushes into his hand.  
  
"If it's missing at the end of the night, I'm checking your pockets," Token says, though Kenny doesn't seem to have any on his costume, which is just a fuzzy, leopard print loincloth and a plastic caveman club that's supposed to look like it's made of wood. Kenny is just trying to show off because he somehow became completely ripped over the summer. The girl - some sophomore in a slutty nurse costume - is clinging to him like she's barely holding herself back from licking his chest.  
  
"This is that rich friend I was telling you about," Kenny says to the girl. "I'm going to steal his watch after I get him wasted," he says in a stage whisper. Kenny and Token have always ragged on each other for being poor and rich, respectively. Somehow the gap between them makes it less fraught than it is when the other guys do it.  
  
Token spends most of the party talking to Kenny and his girlfriend, who is actually kind of interesting, and apparently a huge football fan. They talk about the Broncos and the Cows and college football recruiters, who will only be looking at Stan on any serious level. Token keeps an eye on Clyde, watching him circulate. Once Clyde is drunk he mostly just hangs out with Butters, giggling loud enough to be heard from across the room and over the music. Those two have always gotten along well, though Butters is technically a dork and Clyde is too cute and uncomplicated to be anything but one of the most well-liked people in school. At least, that's how the others see him. Token knows Clyde gets along well with Butters because they both can't believe anyone likes them. It should be impossible to have such low self esteem when your parents have been telling you all your life that you're their perfect little angel, but Clyde manages. Token blames Craig. It's the real reason they're not friends anymore.  
  
"Are they having pillow talk about you and Cartman?" Kenny asks when his girl goes to get a drink refill.  
  
"Huh?" Token says. He's well past buzzed, ready to leave, but Clyde looks like he's having fun.  
  
"Butters and Clyde. I guess, uh, pillow talk isn't the right term." Kenny is high, but when isn't he. "Like, are they bragging to each other about your dick sizes. Is what I'm asking."  
  
"I don't want to think about Cartman's dick, ever," Token says. "It worries me that apparently you do."  
  
"I don't want to, I just. I guess what I'm really asking here is 'are you fucking Clyde?'"  
  
"I guess what I'm asking is why do you care?" Token doesn't want to tell anyone without Clyde's permission, but he doesn't want to lie about this, either. Not to Kenny, who could see through all of them at eight years old.  
  
"Alright, fine, be that way," Kenny says, waving his hand through the air. "I just think it's funny. First Stan, then Cartman, now you."  
  
"You don't have any proof about Stan and Cartman."  
  
"Um, really? You're going to contend that Stan doesn't fuck the shit out of Kyle after these parties?"  
  
"Kenny." Token sighs heavily, as if this subject of conversation is a great burden, not the kind of thing that makes his heart pound with excitement. "Fine, I'll give you Stan. But Butters. Butters and Cartman might just be, like. Voluntary enslavement."  
  
"Right, 'cause all sorts of people voluntarily enslave themselves to people whose dicks they don't want to suck."  
  
"You are wasted," Token says, pretending to punch Kenny's cheek. "And a little too curious about gay sex for someone with such a hot girlfriend."  
  
"She's not my girlfriend," Kenny says. "And what the hell am I supposed to be curious about? I'm surrounded by it."  
  
"You assume you are."  
  
"I don't know what else I'm supposed to think. How come you're not with Wendy anymore?"  
  
"Oh, Christ," Token says, moaning. "Do we have to go through this every time you get drunk?"  
  
"No, no, seriously, because you could totally get her back if you want-"  
  
"Kenny, fuck! Stan told me you do this to him, too. Look, neither of us are interested in Wendy, okay? She's a great girl, but it didn't work out. If you want her, go for it."  
  
"Like she'd date me," Kenny says, pretending to laugh at the idea. "I'm not exactly Stan. I'm not exactly Token."  
  
"Yeah, and it didn't exactly work out between her and Stan or me. Man, figure it out," Token says, handing Kenny his empty beer bottle.  
  
"Why are you giving me this?" Kenny asks. "Do you see a silver tray in my hand? Do I look like your butler?"  
  
"Yes," Token says. "And you're in danger of not getting tipped."  
  
"Is that what you say to Clyde when he doesn't swallow?"  
  
"Ha," Token says, actually kind of pissed off by that comment. Kenny's not-girlfriend returns with their drinks, and Token snatches the empty beer bottle back before making his way over to Clyde.  
  
"And then that part when he talks to the horse?" Clyde is saying to Butters, red-faced from laughing, and from being drunk as shit. "He's - he's like - what does he say?"  
  
"Wait for the sign!" Butters says, putting on a Louis Tully voice that makes Clyde laugh harder. "Then all prisoners will be released!"  
  
"Shouldn't Butters come as Louis next year?" Clyde asks, jabbing Token in the ribs. "In - in that helmet thing, you know? Wouldn't that be perfect?"  
  
"Yeah, and Cartman could come as the Stay Puft Marshmallow man. You ready to go?"  
  
"Aw, you fellas are leaving already?" Butters asks. He's sitting on the snack table amid the pretzels and potato chips, and Token can't help wondering if Cartman asked him to do so, like he's just another one of Cartman's snacks.  
  
"We gotta go," Clyde says, and Token is surprised; he expected Clyde to protest. "We have another Halloween thing that we have to do," he says, whispering that part loudly and swaying forward to hug Butters goodbye.  
  
"Oh, I gotcha," Butters says. He smiles and gives Token a knowing look from over Clyde's shoulder. Token frowns.  
  
"I have no idea what he's talking about," he says, flushing under his three piece suit.  
  
"It's a surprise!" Clyde says. He lets go of Butters and turns to fall onto Token, grinning up at him. "And you are going to like it."  
  
"I'm sure." Token puts his arm around Clyde's waist and tugs him until he's a bit more upright. "See ya, Butters. Tell Cartman we said thanks."  
  
"I sure will! You fellas have a nice Halloween."  
  
Token says goodbye to a few others on the way out, not wanting to draw too much attention to the fact that he's leaving early and dragging Clyde alongside him. Outside, the night has grown colder. Token takes his jacket off to drape it around Clyde, whose jersey is short-sleeved. Clyde hums and nuzzles Token's neck in response, which is okay, because the trick or treaters have gone in for the night, and Clyde is drunk, and it feels good.  
  
"Did you get it?" Clyde asks. "Cartman and Butters' costumes? 'Cause I didn't get it."  
  
"I think Kyle's analysis was pretty dead on," Token says.  
  
"Oh, yeah, probably. _Kyle_. Kyle and Stan. That's so funny, isn't it? I used to be jealous of them. I always wanted a friend like that. Craig was such a jerk to me."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why, do you think? So he could get rid of me and be alone with Tweek? Do you think it's true, like, what people write on the bathroom walls? About them?"  
  
"I don't know," Token says, his mood rapidly deteriorating. "If that's what Craig wants, I'm sure he's getting it."  
  
"Yeah. You think they're at Kevin's? We should go by there. I should fight Craig. Or you should! Oh, man. You could fuck him up."  
  
"I don't want to fuck him up. C'mon, could you walk a little faster? It's cold as fuck out here."  
  
"You want your jacket back?"  
  
"No." Token is actually boiling inside his clothes, because he had no idea Clyde still gave Craig this much thought, though he supposes he shouldn't be surprised. "I'm fine. Just hurry."  
  
At Token's house, Token turns on the living room fire and pours himself more brandy, though he's already pretty lit. Clyde disappears upstairs, saying he has to pee. Token loosens his tie and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, twirling the brandy in his palm while he stares at the fire. He's thinking about the last time all four of them were together, when Token and Craig nearly came to blows. Tweek was terrified and Clyde had looked so sad. In the end, when Token stormed off, turning his back on the things Craig was shouting at him, he did actually put his hand out, not just metaphorically but literally, and Clyde took it. He wonders, now, how much of that was pity, because of course Tweek wasn't going anywhere, and without them Token would have become the fourth or fifth wheel of some other, more tightly knit group, like Butters and Kevin were.  
  
He hears footsteps on the stairs and doesn't turn, because he's mad at Clyde now, for what might have been his pity. What if he accepted Token's advances this summer only out of pity? What if that's what he's doing every time Token slides across his bed at night and finds the warm shape of Clyde under the blankets? If pity is the only reason Clyde opens his lips and arms and legs for him, Token doesn't want to press himself into any of those places ever again.  
  
He's staring at the carpet, so he sees the stockings first, though he doesn't realize that they're not just socks until he looks up, and keeps looking up, his mouth falling open when he sees the garter straps and the frill of the little skirt, and oh holy Christ.  
  
"So, um," Clyde says, pressing his knees together. He seems sobered by what he's wearing, which is a maid's costume, black and white with puffy sleeves and a high lace collar. The stockings are pale blue and white, striped, and he's got a little headband in his hair. "Allow me to explain," Clyde says when Token just sits there with his mouth hanging open. There is almost nothing feminine about Clyde except for a slight softness in his chest that Token could squeeze and lick and nuzzle for hours, and he should look ridiculous in this thing, and maybe he kind of does, but Token is starting to get hard.  
  
"When you said you were going to be a banker or whatever," Clyde says, the red on his cheeks making that dainty little headband look that much daintier. "I thought, like. We should do a costume together, you know? And I thought, what goes with a rich banker guy? Um, and I thought of this. And I really. Really, really wanted to wear this while you wore that. But not to the party. So. Fuck, dude, say something!"  
  
"Come here," Token says, holding his arms out, and he didn't even mean to get into character, just doesn't trust his legs to work, but it strikes him that he's already playing his role, if that's what they're doing, because he's issued an order and he's waiting for Clyde to obey. Clyde hurries to him and sinks into his lap, his knees spreading around Token's thighs and his breath already coming fast when Token's hands settle on his hips. The costume is silky, and Clyde shivers as Token rubs his hands over it.  
  
"Do you like it?" Clyde asks, soft and worried. Token takes a deep breath and lets it out, nodding.  
  
"You can't tell?" He brings Clyde's hand to the crotch of his pants. Clyde grins, and Token can feel him getting hard, too, his cock warm against Token's thigh. Token sucks in his breath again. "You're not wearing any underwear?"  
  
Clyde shakes his head. "Buying this thing was embarrassing enough."  
  
"Jesus," Token says, his hands sliding up under the skirt to cup Clyde's bare ass. "That's - naughty."  
  
"I'm sorry, sir," Clyde says. His breath is heavy with brandy and beer, but he's sober enough to be blushing furiously. "I - broke the dress code?"  
  
Token grins. He hasn't played a game like this since they were kids, with role play and rules that get made up as they go along. He clenches his fingers more tightly around Clyde's ass cheeks, watching his eyelids lower.  
  
"Yeah," Token says. "And since my parents aren't here, I'm the man of the house. I'll have be the one who punishes you."  
  
Clyde whimpers and nods. He wants to be kissed, and Token wants that, too, has wanted it all night, but he draws back when Clyde tries to press into it.  
  
"Lie down over my lap," Token says, trying to make his tone a gentle threat. "You have to be punished now. You don't want to be fired, do you?"  
  
"No, sir, please! I need this job." He wiggles on Token as he says so, humping his leg, fully hard now.  
  
"Then lie down and take your punishment."  
  
"Yes, sir," Clyde says. He's shaking, and Token has to help him get into position. He arranges Clyde so that he's face down against the couch cushions, legs splayed out behind him, his erection digging into Token's thigh as he squirms. Token moans under his breath and pushes the skirt up in back to reveal Clyde's ass. It's a perfect motherfucking ass, just enough to grab and squeeze. Token rubs his hand over it, feeling Clyde shiver again as he does, his knees spreading a little.  
  
"What were you thinking, showing up for work with no underwear?" Token asks, wanting to make him tremble with anticipation for a little longer. "What if I'd dropped something and asked you to pick it up? Were you just going to bend over and let me see everything?"  
  
"Unh - Token - _sir_ -"  
  
"If I'd asked you to hold your ankles and let me look, would you have done that? Is that what we're employing you for, to traipse around the house making me hard?"  
  
"No, sir," Clyde says, and he affects a sob, or maybe he really is sobbing. He's so hard against Token's leg, rubbing himself there with tiny twitches of his hips. Token spanks him once, just lightly, and Clyde goes still with a gasp.  
  
"Quit wiggling," Token says. He presses his hand over Clyde's ass again, grinning when he flinches. "You'd better not be getting off on this. You've been very bad. I might have to tell my parents on you."  
  
"No, no, please-"  
  
"Yeah, we'll see. Depends on how well you take your punishment. Ready to take it now? Gonna take it well for me? Show me how good you can be?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Clyde says, squirming again. Token spanks him in response, harder this time. Clyde yelps, but it turns into a moan before it's fully past his lips, and he's so relaxed over Token's lap, his eyes closed against the couch cushions. Token reaches up to rub his neck, and Clyde arches into it like a cat, sighing.  
  
"Tell me if it's too hard," Token says, softly, wanting Clyde to understand that this order exists outside of the game. Clyde just spreads his legs and sighs again.  
  
"You know my ass can take it," he says, his voice suddenly deeper, and Token moans involuntarily, nodding to himself. Clyde likes it rough. It's a proven fact. They might not have had a real conversation about this yet, but they've worked a lot of things out in the dark, after midnight.  
  
Making Clyde's perfect ass blush red gets Token so hard and ready that he has to take breaks just to breathe and stroke Clyde's hair. Clyde is panting, actually lifting his ass to meet Token's hand every time it comes down, and he moans through the aftermath, when Token soothes his fingers over his burning skin. Sweat has pooled inside Token's shirt, and he's ripped his tie off. He's considering tying Clyde arms behind his back, but no, no - he wants Clyde to be able to hold on to him while he's getting fucked, and Token can't wait any longer.  
  
"You did good," Token says. He reaches down between Clyde's legs and rubs his cock with just one finger, like it's an itch that needs scratching. Clyde shouts and comes all over the couch cushions, which Token wasn't expecting. He curses and pulls Clyde up into his lap, had no idea he'd been that close.  
  
"Token," Clyde pants out, reeling, and Token kisses him, glad that he didn't call him sir just then. He's glad, too, that he didn't tie Clyde hands, because he loves the way Clyde holds on to him, and he's pretty sure this is why he ended up with a boy. Clyde is so strong, big, almost the exact same size as Token, and that's why it feels so good to make him weak.  
  
"Go get something to use for lube," Token says when they're catching their breath, faces pressed together.  
  
"Yes, sir," Clyde says, and Token is back to liking it, being called that.  
  
Inside Clyde, Token continues the game, telling Clyde when to move on him and when to be still. He praises Clyde when he's good and warns him when he starts to fall apart. Clyde whines and nods and tries to do everything Token asks, but he's hard again and getting progressively needier. Token knows what he wants: to be put over the side of the couch and fucked hard, used, reduced to the circumference of the sensations in his ass. To keep himself from coming before that can happen, Token makes himself think of Craig, and how he might have given Clyde this if Token hadn't put his hand out that day. But Craig has Tweek, and Tweek is a disaster no matter what, so Craig won't feel that he's failed him when he continues to be a disaster. Craig couldn't give Clyde what he needed, but Token can, and he will, always, as long as Clyde lets him.  
  
"Are you sore?" Token asks, squeezing one of Clyde's ass cheeks as he continues to move on him, slow and languid, his muscles trembling.  
  
"Yeah," Clyde says, softly, his eyes dropping shut. "Feels good."  
  
"Feels good? You like it when I make you sore?"  
  
"Uh-huh. _Token_. Sir-"  
  
"Why's that, do you think?"  
  
"Because - because-" Clyde whines, and maybe Token shouldn't be asking him this while he's drunk and wearing a maid costume. Clyde moans and leans down to put his lips against Token's ear. "'Cause I'm yours," Clyde says. "I like it when you use me. Feels good when you use me hard."  
  
"Oh, fuck," Token says, and he has to lift Clyde off of him then, barely holding back his orgasm. He turns Clyde over and guides him up onto his knees. Clyde grabs the arm of the sofa, his head dropping down between his shoulders as he presses his ass back, begging. Token licks his lips and takes a moment to appreciate the view: Clyde's ass cheeks still red from the spanking, his hole open and dripping lube, slick thighs trembling, big cock full and heavy between them, the frilly skirt framing all of this.  
  
"Damn, baby," Token says, muttering that under his breath. Clyde laughs and turns to peek at him over his shoulder, from behind one of the costume's puffy sleeves. The headband is slightly askew now, which makes the whole costume look sweeter, and dirtier.  
  
"Baby?" Clyde says.  
  
"Sir?" Token counters, giving his ass a light slap. Clyde moans and presses back, sinking into a deep arch.  
  
"Call me whatever you want," Clyde says. "Just - fuck me, please, God, I'm too empty, so - fucking - _open_ , Token, I need it-"  
  
"Shhh," Token says, drawing that out in a long, low whisper. "You do as I say. Let me look at you. Just let me look." But he can't help touching, too, and as soon as he gives Clyde's cock a few gentle strokes he's coming again, crying against the couch cushions.  
  
"Please, please, please," Clyde whispers as he shudders through his orgasm.  
  
"Who gives you what you need?" Token asks, gripping one ass cheek and rubbing his thumb over the tenderest spot.  
  
"You do," Clyde says, crying for real now, twitching. "Only you, oh, God-"  
  
"That's right," Token says. He lines himself up, teasing Clyde, the head of his cock sliding over that slick, grasping hole. "That's goddamn right."  
  
"Please," Clyde says, so weakly that it breaks Token right down. He slides in, and they both groan, drawing it out until Token is all the way in, slumped over Clyde's bowed back. He licks Clyde's neck and shoulders while he throbs inside him, wanting this to never, ever end. It's the first time they've done this somewhere other than his bedroom or Clyde's, and yes they ruined the couch, but Token will personally scrub it clean with a toothbrush if he has to, because this was fucking worth it.  
  
"Baby," Token says again, murmuring this against Clyde's sweat-damp neck, just at his hair line. Clyde whimpers and nods.  
  
"I know," Clyde says, voice breaking. "I am."  
  
"Only for me," Token says, because Clyde is sensitive about this, between the tears that still come and the blush that comes so easily, and the way he smiles like he doesn't get the joke when the others are making fun of him, even though he gets it, he does.  
  
"Yeah, yours," Clyde says, still nodding, clenching, twitching as Token's arms wind tightly around his chest. "Only for you."  
  
And Token believes it, because Clyde would not wear a maid's uniform for anyone else, and when he comes inside Clyde he can't believe he ever thought this might be pity. It's trust. That's what's thrumming through both of them as they slump down together, Token spooned around Clyde and still inside him. This is how much they trust each other. This is why Clyde put his hand in Token's that day.  
  
Token has become accustomed to falling asleep immediately after sex, and it's no different now, the gas powered fire making that soft _fwump, fwump_ sound behind them. When he wakes up Clyde is still curled up in his arms, his back curved against Token's chest, knee socks pressed to the couch cushions. Token sighs and ghosts his lips over Clyde's neck, shifting his hips back until his cock disconnects completely. More come pools out onto the couch, and Token drowsily calculates how early he'll need to get up in order to amend this before his parents can see it. Clyde moans and scoots back until his ass is snug against Token's thighs again.  
  
"You wanna go upstairs?" Token asks.  
  
"Nuh," Clyde says.  
  
"I could carry you."  
  
"You couldn't," Clyde says, and he smiles a little.  
  
"Probably true," Token admits. He's exhausted, can barely hold his eyes open. "You want to take this off?" He smooths the frilly skirt down over Clyde's thigh.  
  
"In a minute," Clyde says. His eyes are still closed, and he winces when he encounters a puddle of his own drool on the couch cushion, pressing back against Token more firmly in order to escape it.  
  
"Remember when we were kids?" Token asks. "Halloween night? How we'd crash after all that candy?"  
  
"I'd have nightmares," Clyde says, mumbling. It's true; Craig and Token would compete to see who could tell the scariest story before bed. Tweek and Clyde would both wake up screaming at least once before dawn.  
  
"I'd feel bad," Token says, stroking his hair. "I'd want to hold you. I don't think I even knew that, really, but when you'd get upset like that, after a dream? There'd be this hole in my chest, and I'd want to plug it with, like. You."  
  
"Me," Clyde says, smiling. "Well, yeah. If there was a hole in your chest, I'd want to be in it."  
  
"Thanks," Token says, and he should probably stop there, but he tries it again, giving Clyde a little squeeze. "Baby."  
  
"You're welcome, sir."  
  
"Okay, c'mon. That's going to be what you call me? Even when you're not wearing this thing?"  
  
"I dunno," Clyde says. He's laughing now, just a little, but Token is holding him tight enough to feel it. "What's better? Papi?"  
  
"Oh, Jesus Christ, dude, you did not." Token might actually kind of like that, maybe, but only if he was balls deep. Clyde laughs harder and rolls onto his back, pressing his face to Token's cheek.  
  
"No, I'm not good at that, anyway," Clyde says. "Like, pet names. I'll leave that to you."  
  
"Were you nervous about this?" Token asks, tugging at the collar on Clyde's costume. Clyde shrugs.  
  
"A little," he says. "But I figured, even if you thought it was stupid, like. You wouldn't laugh at me."  
  
"I'd never, never laugh at you," Token says. He pulls Clyde to him and kisses his hair, straightening the headband.  
  
"I know," Clyde says. He wraps his leg around the small of Token's back, and those soft knee socks feel good against Token's skin. "So what are we going to do about this couch? It's all, um. Debauched."  
  
"You let me worry about that."  
  
"But I'm the maid!"  
  
"Dude, your fantasy actually extends to cleaning things?"  
  
"Uh, not really, actually. Yeah, I'll just let you worry about that."  
  
"Please, yeah." Token kisses his forehead and tucks him in tight. It feels weirdly good to hold someone who's wearing a dress. He's missed that, maybe, wanted it, but not as much as he used to want to hold Clyde on those nights when he woke up scared. Craig had laughed at Clyde once or twice, when he woke up because of the stories Craig and Token told. Token never laughed, but he never held him, either. He squeezes him closer now, wanting to make up for it, and Clyde sleeps through the night without waking.


	13. Amnesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kenny likes to cock block Stan on Friday nights. Eventually it pays off.

Kenny had always had a thing for Kyle, and for pushing boundaries with an easy smirk, getting away with murder. It was a running joke that he would molest Kyle as often and as brazenly as he could, until Kyle moaned out a protest or Stan threatened to kick his ass. Anyone who sincerely tried to pursue Kyle was an idiot or a masochist; even Kyle's parents would probably have trouble remembering a time when Kyle belonged to anyone but Stan. Still, Kenny had known them since the dawn of time, and some part of them belonged to him, too, even if he could only have them as a set.  
  
Friday nights in South Park weren't exactly bursting with entertainment options, and by their senior year of high school Kenny still hadn't found anything more interesting to do than sit around in the basement of Kyle's house and cockblock Stan. Kyle liked it, too, though he'd never admit it to anyone, probably not even himself. He wasn't allowed to announce to the school at large that Stan was boning him, and though he claimed not to want that, Kenny saw how Kyle's blood boiled as Stan walked the halls enjoying his golden boy status. He still flirted with Wendy, who was the class president. Kyle was the vice president. He claimed not to mind.  
  
Flirting had gotten easy for Kenny around middle school, when he stopped covering half his face with the hood of his parka. He was mostly attracted to other people like himself, who wanted sex all the time and had few hangups about how they got it. He was responsible for taking the virginity of at least four students at South Park High, and all of them left his bed satisfied, except Butters, who had apparently been under the impression that Kenny would be his boyfriend from then on. Kenny should have seen that coming. He still threw Butters a bone once in awhile, fucking him in the handicapped stall at school or letting him sit in his lap when Kenny was drunk at parties, but he wasn't really interested in trying to possess someone who was so easy to get. The only real challenge for him in South Park was Kyle, who might have only been humoring Kenny for the sake of making Stan mad, but was still pretty fun to sexually harass.  
  
So it was a typical Friday night: the three of them on the couch in Stan's basement, one of the _Lord of the Rings_ sequels on TV, an empty pizza box sitting on the coffee table, and Kyle sitting between Stan and Kenny, laughing under his breath as he was covertly molested by both of them. It was the dead of winter and the basement was as cold as a witch's tit, so all three of them were under a giant old comforter that smelled faintly of dried come and orange soda. It made sneaking their hands under Kyle's clothing that much easier, and when he started laughing and squirming they could always assume that they were the one causing this reaction, when it was just as likely that the other one was doing something better and more stimulating to him. Stan was more in denial about this than Kenny, but it still kind of stung when Stan was the one who made Kyle blush and twitch.  
  
"Kenny, seriously," Stan said when he found Kenny's hand under the blanket, their fingers brushing together in the humid space between Kyle's thighs. "Get your hands off him."  
  
"Yeah, Kenny," Kyle said, but he was smiling absently, staring at the TV. Stan gave Kyle an irritated look, and he pretended not to see it. Kenny smirked and shrugged.  
  
"I thought I dropped a piece of popcorn down there," he said. Kyle laughed, seemed almost drunk. Wendy might have been the class president, but down in Stan's basement Kyle was the star of the fucking show.  
  
"We didn't even eat popcorn tonight," Stan said, scowling.  
  
"Oh, yeah." Kenny dug his flask out from the pocket of his sweatshirt and took a swig before offering some to Kyle, pressing the cool metal to his bottom lip. Kyle shook his head, but the way his eyes snuck up to Kenny's when he did was as good as another shot of the strong stuff, sending a jolt of renewed interest down Kenny's spine. He had another drink for good measure, then held it out for Stan, who surprised him by taking it and drinking. Kyle turned to watch Stan's throat bob as he swallowed.  
  
"Sick," Stan said, wincing and handing the flask back to Kenny.  
  
"Sorry I didn't bring any wine coolers," Kenny said. Under the blanket, he slid his hand onto Kyle's thigh again, stealthily, and squeezed. "You'd like wine coolers, wouldn't you?"  
  
"No," Kyle said. He shifted, opening his legs wider. Kenny would bet a million dollars that Stan's hand was wrapped around Kyle's other thigh, and that Kyle's dick was hard as he thought about being pulled apart by the two of them, little by little, inch by inch.  
  
"Sure you would," Kenny said. "They're sweet and innocent, like you." He rubbed his nose against Kyle's, which made Kyle wince and laugh. Stan reached over to shove Kenny's shoulder.  
  
"Knock it off," he said. "Watch the movie or get out."  
  
Kenny stared at the screen, his smirk frozen on his face as he wondered how innocent Kyle really was. Kenny teased him at school, whispering questions into his ear when they were supposed to be having study hour in the library: _Does Stan fuck you? Bareback? Is it all tender and missionary style, or does he put your hands against the wall behind his bed and fuck you from behind?_ Kyle would turn bright red and tell him to shut up, revealing nothing.  
  
The movie was about eight hours long, which was fine with Kenny. He was buzzed, and buzzing, moving his hand up along Kyle's thigh and sneaking his fingers under the hem of his shirt. Kyle was staring at the screen, his lips just slightly parted, eyes glazed. Kenny could hear him swallowing the excess spit in his mouth as Kenny's fingers found his bare skin, ghosting over the dip above Kyle's hip bone. Kyle shuddered and made a soft noise, trying to hide it in a yawn.  
  
"You tired?" Stan asked. He was dying for an excuse to kick Kenny out, so he could do to Kyle whatever it was he did when they were alone together. Kenny would bet that it was all missionary, sweet and slow, Stan whispering that he loved Kyle, making him believe it for a little while. If Kyle believed it all the time, he wouldn't let Kenny's hand sneak up higher his shirt, wouldn't let Kenny covertly twist his nipple even as Stan nuzzled his face.  
  
"I'm okay," Kyle said, his voice a little tight. Kenny rubbed his thumb over the hard little nub and watched Kyle's jaw go tense as he tried not to react. Stan might not be creative enough to play with Kyle's nipples. Kenny was doing them a favor, really, giving them new stuff to work with. If only he could get his teeth around one of Kyle's nipples and really blow his fucking mind. Kenny's mouth got wet as he thought about it, and he dug out his flask with his free hand.  
  
"Try a little of this," he said to Kyle after he'd thrown back a few more shots. Kyle eyed the flask warily.  
  
"Don't," Stan said. "You'll make him sick."  
  
"What are you, his mother? Here, try it." Kenny held the flask to Kyle's lips again, watching his bottom lip pull down against the rim. Their eyes met, and when they did, Kenny knew he would drink, that he wanted it. He tipped the flask up and watched Kyle drink from it, the distracted beginnings of his boner going full-hard as he imagined Kyle lapping like this from the tip of his cock. Or from Stan's; Kenny would take what he could get. He was no stranger to beating off to the thought of Kyle getting nailed by Stan. Or Cartman, but that sort of shit was strictly for the realm of fantasy, unless pigs started flying.  
  
"Good?" Kenny said when Kyle had swallowed. Kyle nodded and licked his lips, and goddamn, Stan must have really pissed him off at school that day. This was more than the usual whiny flirting; he was giving Kenny full-on _fuck me_ signals.  
  
"Let me have some more," Stan said, yanking the flask out of Kenny's hand. He drank from it, glaring at the television. Kenny was starting to feel drunk, and it was giving him ideas.  
  
"Does it annoy you guys when I come over here on Friday nights?" Kenny asked.  
  
"No," Kyle said.  
  
"Occasionally," Stan said.  
  
"'Cause I know you want to be alone together," Kenny said. "So you can have sex like two pastel-colored wine coolers who were made for each other."  
  
"Excuse me?" Stan said. Kyle just looked confused; Kenny wouldn't put getting drunk on two swallows of whiskey past him.  
  
"It's like cranberry-pear fucking strawberry-peach," Kenny said. "That's you guys."  
  
"What the fuck would you know about it?" Stan said. He drank again from the flask. "You think you know everything about sex, just 'cause you lost your virginity at, like, ten?"  
  
He had been fourteen, actually, high as fuck, half-conscious under one of his older brother's friends, face down. He was always on top after that.  
  
"Quit hogging the hooch," Kenny said. He snatched it back from Stan and threw some back, almost draining it before giving it to Kyle again. Kyle still seemed fuzzy, like he wasn't quite sure what was happening. Under the blanket, Kenny was playing with the fine little hairs just above the waistline of Kyle's jeans.  
  
"It's gone," Kyle said, giving the empty flask to Kenny. He took it and threw it over the back of the couch, which made Kyle laugh. Stan leaned down to lick Kyle's earlobe into his mouth, maybe just to stop him laughing. It worked, Kyle's eyelids lowering. Kenny thumbed the button of Kyle's jeans.  
  
"What I was trying to tell you guys," Kenny said, "Is that you don't have to wait until I'm gone. I'm pretty fucked up right now, not gonna lie. I probably won't remember, you know. Whatever happens."  
  
"Bullshit," Stan said, his mouth still on Kyle's ear. "You want to see us fuck. It'd be the highlight of your year."  
  
"So you do fuck your little strawberry-peach," Kenny said. His fingers skimmed down over the button of Kyle's jeans, along the zipper, and he left his palm there, over the bulge of Kyle's cock. He was hard, needy, his hips shifting up as Kenny's hand settled there. Kyle closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the couch pillows, Stan's mouth moving down the line of his jaw and Kenny's fingers squeezing just gently around his erection, teasing him.  
  
"Of course I fuck him," Stan said. His eyes were dark, locked on Kenny's even as he nuzzled at Kyle. "Wouldn't you, if you could?"  
  
"You have to ask?"  
  
"Guys," Kyle said softly, but that was his only protest. Beneath the blanket, his hand slid over Kenny's, and Kenny was afraid he would get pushed away, but Kyle held Kenny's hand in place, moving his hips up against it as subtly as he could.  
  
"He loves it, too," Stan said. He bumped his nose against Kyle's check. "Don't you, dude? Tell him how good it feels when I fuck you."  
  
"Stan," Kyle said, moaning. He turned to Stan and opened his mouth under his. Stan kissed him deeply, and Kyle's hand moved more insistently on Kenny's under the blanket, pushing Kenny's fingers in more firmly around his dick.  
  
"Tell him," Stan whispered into Kyle's mouth, his eyes locked on Kyle's. "Tell him how good I take care of you after he leaves."  
  
"You do," Kyle said, whining, nodding. "Stan – mfph. Want it, please."  
  
"Now?" Stan laughed a little. His eyes flicked to Kenny's. "You want me to show him?"  
  
Kyle looked back and forth between them. Kenny's hand was locked in a vice grip around Kyle's dick, but he stayed perfectly still, his heart pounding.  
  
"If we did it under the blanket," Kyle said, his voice small. "Then – then we could. He wouldn't be able to see."  
  
"Oh, he'd see plenty," Stan said. He gave Kenny a look, grinning darkly. "He'd see how I'm all you need."  
  
"Please," Kyle said, pulling at Stan's shirt. "Please, dude, I'm so hard."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Kenny got his hand out of the way quick, not sure if Stan could feel the movement under the blanket. He sat back and watched as Stan rubbed Kyle through his jeans. Kyle arched and moaned, finally able to roll his hips up against the friction.  
  
"Out from under the blanket," Stan said to Kenny as Kyle pulled his sweater and undershirt off.  
  
"No way, dude," Kenny said. "It's cold out there. Here, I'll just scoot over."  
  
"Fine, but you're not allowed to touch him."  
  
"Sure," Kenny said, ready to agree to anything if it meant he could see Kyle ride Stan's dick. Kyle was always wound so tight, and there was nothing hotter than watching him melt into something that felt good, even if it was just a back rub in the library. He was already writhing under Stan's attentions, humping Stan's hand and trying to get his jeans off at the same time. Kenny scooted against the arm of the couch and leaned back, reaching into his own jeans to take hold of his dick. He didn't stroke himself yet, already too close for comfort. He wanted this to last in every sense.  
  
"I'm gonna suck your dick," Stan said to Kyle, their noses pressed together. Kyle nodded as if mesmerized, and watched Stan disappear under the comforter before glancing over at Kenny. His eyes trailed down to Kenny's cock, and Kenny groaned when Kyle licked his lips.  
  
"You'd better not be touching him, Kenny!" Stan said from under the blankets.  
  
"Nope," Kenny said. He traced his finger over the head of his cock, watching Kyle's eyes follow the movement. When he had collected all the pre-come there, he reached over and offered his fingers to Kyle. There were wet sounds from under the comforter, and Kyle was twitching lazily, like low currents of electricity were moving through his body. He opened his lips for Kenny's fingers, his eyes fluttering shut as he sucked the pre-come from them. His mouth was so wet and warm, his tongue velvet-soft. Kenny had to swallow down a regretful moan for not being able to stand and offer Kyle his dick. He was sure that Kyle would open wide for him, would drink him down while Stan went to work on him under the blanket.  
  
"Stan," Kyle said, pulling off of Kenny's fingers, wounding his pride for a moment. "Mmpfh – please."  
  
"Okay, shh," Stan said, still under the blanket. "Kenny, get the lube. We keep it under the couch, over on that side."  
  
"Nice," Kenny said. "I hope your mom doesn't vacuum too thoroughly down here."  
  
"Shut up and get it for me," Stan said. His head popped out from under the blanket, his hair a static-filled mess, and he crawled up to give Kyle a long, sloppy kiss, their hips grinding together under the blanket. Stan had undressed while he was under there, and Kenny lamented not being able to see his naked ass as he passed him the lube.  
  
"Thanks," Stan said, breathless. He gave Kyle a peck on his swollen lips. "Ready?" he said.  
  
"Mm – stretch me first, okay?" Kyle said, drunk enough to think that Kenny wouldn't hear that bashful, whispered request.  
  
"Damn, is he that big?" Kenny asked, trying to peek under the comforter. Stan swatted at him.  
  
"Cut it out, or we'll make you leave," he said. Kenny doubted that was true. Stan wanted him to see this, had been dying to brag about how hard and deep and well he fucked Kyle, and what better way to show off than to let someone hear the noises Kyle made while he was taking it? Still, Kenny sat back, not ready to play his hand yet.  
  
"Spread your legs," Stan whispered. Kyle obeyed, keeping his eyes locked on Stan's as he shifted under the blanket. He was breathing harder already, his skinny chest skittering under Stan's, and Kenny hated that he could only see Kyle's collarbone, just a hint of his shoulders. He could imagine what was going on under the blanket well enough when Kyle moaned, deep and uncharacteristically gruff: Stan's lubed finger was slipping into him, working him open.  
  
"Yeah," Kyle said, his voice high-pitched again, broken.  
  
"Yeah?" Stan said. He grinned and rubbed his nose against Kyle's cheek.  
  
"Hah!" Kyle shouted, jerking. Stan must have found his magic button. Butters had one, too, and Kenny could make him come just by rubbing it, his hand pressed over Butters' mouth to keep him quiet. Sometimes the intensity of it actually made Butters cry, and Kenny always let him have bonus cuddling time when that happened, Butters' arms looped around his neck while he sniffled, his wet face hidden under Kenny's jaw.  
  
Funny to be thinking of that now. Kenny shook his head and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Kyle was rapidly losing his shit, his teeth gritted as he tried to grind himself down onto Stan's finger. Stan looked momentarily dazed. His mouth was hanging open, eyes vacant as he watched Kyle squirm and whine.  
  
"Okay," Kyle said, nodding. "Okay. Mhmm, ah. Need it, now, please."  
  
"What do you need?" Stan asked, back in control. He stroked Kyle's face. Kenny's hand was moving on his cock now, almost without his permission.  
  
"You," Kyle said. He opened his eyes and met Stan's shyly. "In me. Please."  
  
"You need to ride my dick?" Stan asked, whispering, taunting. Kenny felt like they'd both forgotten that he was in the room. He okay with that, for now.  
  
"Yeah," Kyle said. He nodded wildly. "Please, Stan, _please_."  
  
Stan didn't make him beg any further, and though Kenny could watch that for hours, it was still a weird, vicarious relief when Stan sat back on his knees, slicked his cock, and positioned himself under Kyle. He cradled Kyle and laid him down on his back. They were facing the side of the couch that Kenny was sitting against, but he could only see the tops of their heads, until Stan started to slide into Kyle and Kyle threw his head back, his eyes pinched shut and his teeth digging hard into his bottom lip.  
  
"Careful," Kenny heard himself say. Stan's head jerked up, and he glowered at Kenny. Kyle didn't seem to have heard; he was breathing hard, clinging to Stan's shoulders as Stan pushed into him.  
  
"I'm always careful," Stan said. Kenny didn't think he'd ever seen him look so pissed off, and he his shook his head, trying to put a _Don't know where that came from_ kind of apology in his expression. Stan huffed and nosed at Kyle's jaw. "Aren't I?" he said, whispering. "I'd never hurt you, would I?"  
  
"No, ah, _Stan_." Kyle was falling apart in increments, and suddenly he seemed to need to kiss Stan badly. He grabbed Stan's jaw and opened for his tongue, sighing when it slid against his.  
  
"That's good," Stan said, his lips moving over Kyle's gasping mouth. "Just – yeah, good, relax. That's right."  
  
Now Kenny really wanted to get a look at Stan's cock; it must be big if he still had to talk Kyle through this after they'd been fucking for God knew how long. That or Kyle was just tight as all fuck, always needing to be loosened up by someone gentle and patient. Kenny licked his lips, pre-come sticky on his fingers as he stroked himself. He watched Stan's face as Stan settled down against Kyle, chest to chest, balls deep. He looked lost for a moment, resting his forehead against Kyle's cheek.  
  
"Stan," Kyle said, sighing his name out, touching Stan's hair. Kenny could smell their sweat now, the particular mix of it that he'd recognized on the comforter. It wasn't quite as fruity as wine coolers, but it was clean, honest, high school boy sweat. He wanted to lick it off their backs, and from the slick sides of their necks.  
  
"How's he feel?" Kenny asked, ready to be back in the mix now, too far away from the humidity of their bodies. Kyle just moaned in answer, his eyes closed and his chin tipped back. Stan looked up at Kenny as if in warning, then his expression softened.  
  
"Nobody's ever been in him but me," Stan said. His voice was actually shaking, and it would have been funny if his eyes weren't boring into Kenny's in a way that made Kenny fidget. "And no one else ever will be. That's how he feels, how good he feels."  
  
Kyle moaned again, writhing under Stan, trying to spur him into action. Stan dropped his head and kissed him, his hips beginning to roll slowly. Kenny watched them, thinking about what Stan said. He wouldn't want to ruin that for them, didn't want to fuck Kyle if it meant Stan would see him differently. But there was a reason they were letting him see this. They all belonged to each other.  
  
He waited until they'd really gotten going, Stan's hands fisted in the comforter and Kyle's nails digging into Stan's shoulders, their skin slapping together. The comforter had slipped down to the small of Stan's back. They didn't seem to notice, both of them working to contain their groans, though Kyle's parents probably weren't back from their date in the city yet. Kenny wanted to make his move before Kyle came. He got off the couch slowly, making as few indentions in the cushions as possible. Kyle didn't notice, too busy huffing Stan's name and clawing at his shoulders. Stan had his face buried against Kyle's neck as he fucked him hard, his curses muffled by Kyle's skin. Kenny stepped out of his jeans, then his boxers. He grabbed the lube from the spot on the floor that it had rolled to.  
  
Stan didn't notice the comforter slipping down until his ass was exposed. It was a football player's ass, all hard muscle, his bathing suit tan still faintly visible. Sweat was dripping from the small of Stan's back down along his crack, and Kenny was salivating as he lubed up his finger, wishing that he felt confident enough about this to push Stan's cheeks apart and bury his tongue in there. He was risking a lot already, so he started slower, tickling his thumb over the cleft. Stan shouted and went still over Kyle, whipping his head around to look at Kenny.  
  
"What the fuck?" he said. "When'd you – how'd you get back there?" He was panting, sweat dripping from the ends of his bangs. Kyle craned his neck to see what Kenny was doing, and it was pretty much the most adorable thing Kenny had ever seen. He grinned.  
  
"Have you ever even let Kyle play with your ass?" Kenny asked. Stan glared at him.  
  
"Cut it out, Kenny," he said. "If I wasn't about to come –"  
  
"I bet you'll last longer if you let me finger you," Kenny said. "And you'll come harder, too."  
  
"Stan," Kyle said. He wiggled his hips. "Please, don't stop, I'm really close."  
  
"Kyle – I – Kenny – ah!" Stan closed his eyes and ducked his head as Kenny's finger pushed into his crack. Kenny's cock was throbbing; Stan's skin was so hot, and he trembled when Kenny found his hole.  
  
"Just relax," Kenny said, rubbing the small of Stan's back with his other hand. "I'll be careful with you."  
  
Stan huffed doubtfully. His hips moved, pushing forward into Kyle, then back against Kenny's finger. He moaned a little, weakly. Kyle met Kenny's eyes, and he smiled, brushing Stan's sweaty bangs from his forehead.  
  
"Show him how good it feels," Kyle said, to Kenny. Stan sighed, his face still pressed to Kyle's shoulder. His knees inched apart a bit as Kenny's finger circled his hole.  
  
"Yeah," Stan said, softly. That was all the encouragement Kenny needed.  
  
It was delicate at first, stop and start, Stan whimpering when Kenny's finger pushed into him. Kyle soothed him through it, kissing his face. Kenny felt like he was going to explode if he couldn't get his dick into Stan soon, but he took his time, letting Stan adjust until he was pushing back for more, whining into Kyle's mouth when Kenny curled his finger and teased his magic button. Kenny knelt onto the couch and leaned over Stan's back, his finger still deep inside him.  
  
"I'm gonna fuck you," he said, whispering this into Stan's ear like it was a secret they could keep from Kyle. "It might feel kind of scary at first, but don't worry. No one's ever been inside you, have they?"  
  
"No." Stan's voice was very small; his thighs were trembling. Kyle moaned and kissed Stan's closed eyelids.  
  
"That's okay," Kenny said. He kissed the back of Stan's neck and rubbed his free hand down over the muscles on Stan's arm, feeling goosebumps rise on his sweltering skin. "That's good, right? No one else ever will be, will they?"  
  
"No," Stan said, shaking his head, his eyes still pinched shut tight. "No one else."  
  
"I'll be careful with you," Kenny said, sealing this promise by licking Stan behind his ear. Stan whimpered and nodded, giving Kyle a sharp thrust that made him shout.  
  
Kenny wanted to fuck him hard, hadn't been inside a virgin since his sophomore year. Stan was responsive in a way that made Kenny think of Butters, gasping sharply and moving his hips in timid little twitches. He clearly needed to be cuddled, something else he had in common with Butters. Kyle and Kenny both did what they could, Kyle kissing Stan and asking him if he was okay in whispers, praising him when he nodded. Kenny rubbed his hand across Stan's back, and finally pressed his chest against it when he was all in, his arms winding around Stan's middle.  
  
"Goddamn," Stan said. His voice was hoarse and broken, and finally his trembling legs gave out. He lay flat against Kyle's chest, his legs splayed out under Kenny's. For a long time the three of them didn't move except to nuzzle at each other lazily, Kenny's cock throbbing inside Stan. It felt like a heartbeat that was keeping all of them alive. The sweat began to cool on Kenny's skin, and he reached down to pull the comforter up over them again.  
  
"You guys okay?" he asked, stroking Kyle's hair, then Stan's. They both nodded. Kyle grinned up at him.  
  
"Go ahead, dude," he said, and Kenny realized then that he'd been afraid to move, waiting for permission.  
  
It was an uncoordinated mess, but Kyle came almost as soon as Kenny started fucking Stan down into him, and the noises he made when he did were as sweet and filthy as Kenny had imagined. Kenny sat back on his knees and took hold of Stan's hips, fucking him hard only when Stan turned and cursed him, telling him he wanted it faster, harder, deeper. Kenny had once known a guy who had those words tattooed over the small of his back, and when he imagined them on Stan's skin, hidden under his football uniform, there for Kenny's eyes only, he came with a ripping groan, pumping it all into Stan. He reached down to finish Stan off and found his cock already sticky and softening; he must have spilled his orgasm into Kyle without warning, whatever sound he made lost in the shuffle. Kenny liked that, actually, that only Kyle would have felt it. He tried to meet Kyle's eyes, hoping Kyle would feed him his cue again, tell him what to do next, but Kyle was being kissed by Stan, eyes closed, both of them sighing into each other's mouths.  
  
Kenny pulled out, more exhausted than he'd ever been after a fuck. He gave Stan a slap on the ass and winked at Kyle before stumbling toward the bathroom. He'd never been a big cuddler, anyway. That was Butters' department. He cleaned his cock off, splashed water on his face, and found himself wishing that he'd brought some clothes into the bathroom with him. He almost wanted to wrap a towel around his waist before leaving the bathroom, but there was only a damp hand towel available, and that would be pathetic. He walked out pretending to be oblivious to his nakedness, his cock still red and obvious. Stan and Kyle were wrapped in the comforter, Stan sitting up and Kyle tucked into his lap, his head on Stan's shoulder.  
  
"Kenny," Stan said. He grinned. "What'd you put in that whiskey?"  
  
"That's for me to know," Kenny said. He winked and started gathering up his clothes.  
  
"Dude," Kyle said. "C'mere."  
  
"Nah, I'm good," Kenny said. "I like this." He held up his hands like he was framing a picture of the two of them. "It's sweet, it's perfect. I love you guys, okay?"  
  
"We love you, too," Stan said, frowning. "You're just – leaving?"  
  
"I actually have this thing I have to do," Kenny said, backing toward the basement stairs. "It's kind of – important? I don't know. But that was fun. We should do it again someday."  
  
"Maybe," Stan said. He cinched his arms more tightly around Kyle. "Do you want a ride? To your important thing?"  
  
"Nah, I can walk. It's not far." He shrugged his parka back on, collected his shoes. He was ready to go but still reluctant to leave them. He wanted to always be able to wrap them in a blanket and stand back to admire them, knowing they were safe.  
  
He bolted up the stairs before either of them could say something that would make him stay. Kyle's house was dark and quiet, and Kenny paused in the living room to tie his boots. He loved the way this house smelled. Stan's, too. Like home, always.  
  
The place where he was headed didn't smell like home. It was unnaturally clean in the way that strong disinfectant was, and there was a weird potpourri stench that crept up the stairs from the living room. But there was one thing in the house that made Kenny calm, and he went there when he needed real sleep, and the other thing that he couldn't get anywhere else. Thinking of it kept him warm as he hurried through the snow-caked streets, his shoulders raised to his jaw, hands stuffed into his pockets.  
  
Butters was asleep when Kenny knocked on the window, but he woke easily, as usual. It was like he was always waiting. Kenny wanted to be put off by this, but it was such a relief, the way he scrambled up onto his hands and knees and beamed at Kenny through the window as he unlatched it. Kenny climbed onto the sill and swung his feet through when Butters opened the window for him. They both got to work unlacing Kenny's boots.  
  
"Everything okay?" Butters asked, because sometimes Kenny came to him when nothing was.  
  
"I'm good," Kenny said. "Real tired, though." He liked to tell Butters up front when he wasn't there to fuck him, just for rest. Butters smiled up at him. He never minded not getting off, even seemed to like it when Kenny just rolled into his arms and closed his eyes.  
  
"Well, lucky for you tomorrow's not a school day," Butters said. "And my mom has her quilting class, and my dad is going in to the office early to catch up on some stuff. So you can sleep as long as you like."  
  
"Thanks, Butters."  
  
"Oh, gosh, Kenny. You don't have to thank me. C'mere, you."  
  
Kenny closed the window behind him and dropped into Butters' arms. Butters fussed over his clothes, easing him out of his coat and helping him shrug off his jeans. When Kenny was in his boxers and t-shirt Butters pulled the blankets up over them and hugged his arm around Kenny's shoulders, his forehead coming to rest against Kenny's. Butters' breath smelled like SpaghettiOs and toothpaste. Kenny leaned up to kiss him, for that. Butters smiled and tucked a tuft of Kenny's hair behind his ear.  
  
"Your hair's getting long," Butters said.  
  
"You could cut it for me.”  
  
"Really?" Butters said, like it would be fun, a day at the park.  
  
"Really.” Kenny tucked his arm around Butters' waist and pulled him closer, allowing himself ten seconds of reflection on the events of the night before sleep took over. He did love Kyle and Stan, and they did belong to him. He belonged to them, too. But under this blanket, on this bed, was where he belonged right now, and every time he needed this. It wasn't just that it was uncomplicated - it actually was pretty fucking complicated, in a way - it was that it seemed to go without saying, like the fact that Stan fit with Kyle. Butters was where Kenny fit. He was always going to have his arms open, and after a couple of years of doing it, Kenny was beginning to accept that he would always, eventually, fall into them and know he was safe.


	14. Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan still gets nervous about Friday night football games, but he's got 'sleepovers' with Kyle to look forward to afterward.

  
  
  
The first three times Stan was allowed to start at quarterback, he got violently sick about an hour before the game, on his knees inside a stall in the locker room bathroom. His team lost that first game and won the second one, and after winning the third, his stomach would lurch and whine before his start, but he never actually threw up again. He also never told anyone that he had, except Kyle, who ran his fingers through Stan's hair and told him he was brave.   
  
Now it's the start of their senior year, Stan is the regular starter, and he's approaching something like confidence on the field, though he still loses some games and feels vaguely sick to his stomach throughout Friday afternoon at school. It's worth it for the wins, when the stands explode and his teammates give him crushing hugs, and when he can walk off the field, sweaty and breathless, passing through cheerleaders and arm-squeezing coaches until he reaches the chain link fence where Kyle will be waiting, beaming, his gloved hands resting on top of the fence like he might vault himself over it. Game night is usually cold as fuck, and Kyle will be wrapped up in about eight layers of clothing, the flaps of his green hat protecting his ears. They'll still be cold once they reach Stan's car, Stan flushed under his clothes from the game and the hot locker room shower, and he'll lean over to lick Kyle's earlobe into his mouth once the coast is clear, stopped at a red light or parked on the street outside Stan's mom's house.   
  
“Dude,” Kyle will say, low and soft, and it's like a warning – what if someone saw them, Stan's college football career ruined, blah blah – and a seduction, too, though Stan gets the feeling Kyle doesn't see it that way. There's something about that way Kyle says that word, blushing and pulling his hat flap back down over his ear lobe after Stan has sucked the chill from his skin. Stan starts to feel itchy inside his clothes and like he won't even make it up to his bedroom, where he sometimes fucks Kyle while he's still wearing his coat, Stan in his letter jacket, their pants shoved down, Kyle's moans buried in Stan's sheets, Stan's against the back of Kyle's neck. It's the best part of every Friday night, win or lose, though Stan does prefer the growling, victorious fucks to the ones where Kyle rides him consolingly, bending down to kiss his face.   
  
After Thanksgiving break college recruiters start calling Stan's house, and that old feeling returns, like barfing his guts out is imminent. Kyle is on the basketball team, but he gave up the idea of playing professionally back in middle school. He's always been at the top of their class, an academic club meeting for almost every weeknight, which is fine with Stan, who meets up with him after football practice or weight training and takes him out to Bennigan's, where Kyle will drink three Cokes and talk nonstop about string theory or how he schooled Cartman in a debate team challenge. Stan isn't sure that he wants to play college ball, but it's his best chance of getting some or all of his education paid for. Kyle will get academic scholarships; he's already applied for six.   
  
“If we don't win tonight, we don't make the playoffs,” Stan says when he's having lunch with Kyle on the Friday afternoon of the deciding game. Kyle is eating a turkey sandwich, and just the smell of it is making Stan nauseous. He threw up after breakfast and doesn't want to dare food again.   
  
“You'll make it,” Kyle says, frowning. He likes football, but doesn't really understand the intricacies, like the fact that Stan isn't actually as good as everyone in South Park thinks he is. Kyle thinks Stan will win every time, even when Stan knows he's outmatched and tells Kyle so.   
  
“Maybe it'll be good if we don't,” Stan says, though imagining the accusing stares he'd get from his Uncle Jimbo's friends as he walked off the field makes him feel like he's going to start puking up internal organs. “Then all these recruiters would leave me alone. They're such douchebags.”   
  
“Douchebags, yeah, but they're trying to bankroll you,” Kyle says. He elbows Stan. They're in their favorite lunch spot, at the base of an old tree out on the senior courtyard. It's freezing outside, the air sharp with the smell of oncoming snow, and they're the only ones in the courtyard, sitting close to keep warm.   
  
“It's just too much pressure,” Stan says. He groans, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. “God, I sound like Tweek. And like a pussy.”  
  
“You're not a pussy.” Kyle rubs his back. “Just don't think about all that recruiting bullshit, not tonight. Try to focus.”   
  
“Focus,” Stan says, muttering. What he needs to do is relax, something that would calm him down. He looks over at Kyle. “Would you blow me?” he asks. Kyle laughs and shoves him.  
  
“Right here? In the courtyard? Fuck no, dude.”  
  
“I meant in my car. We could skip fourth period.”   
  
“I can't, I have a test.” Kyle groans and reaches for his backpack. “One that I should be studying for, actually.”  
  
“You studied all night,” Stan says. He leans closer to him, but Kyle shoulders him away.   
  
“Don't,” he says, frowning down at his physics book as he opens it over his knees. “I'm not gonna blow you. I'll do it after the game, okay? When you win.”   
  
“You're saying you're not going to blow me unless I win?”  
  
“Sure,” Kyle says. He looks up at Stan and grins. “If that'll help you win.”   
  
“That's mean,” Stan says. He's starting to feel better, his stomach settling as he thinks about what will happen after the game, the heat of Kyle's skin under the blankets on Stan's bed. “How'd you like it if I said, uh. That I wouldn't fuck you tonight if you didn't ace your test?”  
  
The flush on Kyle's cheeks deepens, and Stan watches his pupils grow fatter. Stan has to swallow down a nervous laugh.  
  
“You'd like that?” he says, softly. Kyle huffs and looks down at his book again, his cheeks blazing now.   
  
“Maybe,” he says. “But – whatever. You wouldn't be able to follow through with it. You're, like, so crazy for it after you play.”  
  
“After I win, you mean.”   
  
“Yeah, and you're gonna win.” Kyle elbows him again. “Here, quiz me on these formulas.”   
  
Stan is glad for the distraction, was starting to get dangerously aroused by the conversation. He feels calmer as he reads out physics questions for Kyle, and is even able to eat some of Kyle's turkey sandwich without getting sick.   
  
“You can't play on an empty stomach,” Kyle says, offering him chips, too. He smiles when Stan accepts them, slides his glove off and reaches up under Stan's jacket, sweater, and undershirt to touch his bare skin lightly, with just two fingertips. Stan shudders, his skin heating despite the cold. Kyle is the one who is paranoid as hell about the two of them getting found out, so anything as bold a tiny brush of his fingers while they're still on school property goes right to Stan's dick.   
  
“Don't make me hard,” Stan says.   
  
“It's called affection, asshole,” Kyle says. He removes his hand, smoothing Stan's shirt and sweater back down. Stan readjusts his jacket, sighs.   
  
“Your affection is really hot,” he says. Kyle laughs, but his eyes light up, too, like it's the best compliment Stan could have given him.   
  
“So's yours,” Kyle says, grinning.   
  
“We'd better get back to this, though,” Stan says, hoisting the book. “Or you'll get a B, and I won't be able to fuck you later.”   
  
Kyle's eyes change, the amusement morphing into flustered interest. He nods slowly.   
  
“You'd really -?” Kyle says. He swallows, and glances around to make sure the courtyard is still empty. “You'd be able to resist? If I didn't, um. Earn it?”  
  
“Jesus,” Stan says. He licks his lips and shifts so that the beginnings of his erection will be quashed by his jeans. “I – yeah. I'd tease the fuck out of you, though. I'd make you come on my fingers while you were begging for my dick.”  
  
“Stan,” Kyle says, whimpering.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I – never mind.” Kyle clears his throat and pulls his knees to his chest. “Keep quizzing me.”   
  
Even the physics terms sound hot, suddenly – _dark matter, polarization, spontaneous symmetry breaking_. While Kyle stutters out the actual definition, Stan thinks about how well that last term would describe the experience losing their virginity together. They were only fifteen, and they'd only been physical with each other for a few months, but once they started they couldn't stop, full speed into an afternoon when Kyle stretched out naked in Stan's bed, wrapped his hands around the backs of his knees and pulled his legs open, exploding any gentlemanly hesitation that Stan had been hanging onto. It was an out of body experience, sinking into Kyle, and they both broke like egg yolks – spontaneously, symmetrically – and held each other for a long time afterward, panting and sweat-soaked. Kyle ran his fingers through Stan's hair, and Stan stayed on top of Kyle, recovering. It was the first time Kyle had done the fingers-through-hair thing, which quickly become a staple. Before actual sex, they'd both been careful not to be too tender with each other, keeping their guard up in case something went wrong, trying to impress each other by how unafraid they were. After sex, there was no looking back, a brand new way they were addicted to each other. Stan had kissed Kyle's neck lazily as he regained his breath, lapping at the slamming drumbeat of Kyle's pulse until it slowed down.   
  
“Well?” Kyle says, frowning at him. “Was I right or not?”  
  
“Um, yeah,” Stan says, so sex-dazed now that he can't remember what he was worrying about before. “You were right.” There's no way Kyle isn't going to ace this test, and he was right before: there's no way Stan would be able to control himself if he didn't, though he likes the idea of Kyle wanting to _earn_ Stan's cock, so much that he's forgotten how to care about the playoffs. Whatever happens during the game, Kyle will be there at the fence afterward, smiling sympathetically or triumphantly, and they'll drive home together, slip into Stan's room and soak the sheets in sweat and come, fall asleep in each other's arms, wake up to pancakes and video games, maybe fresh snow.  
  
The rest of the day goes by too fast, and Stan is on the verge of throwing up again as he dresses for the game in the locker room. People pull him aside for pep talks and he can't really hear them. He just nods and tries not to look like he's about to faint. They were out of the playoffs early last year, and back then the responsibility wasn't squarely on Stan's shoulders. His father has come to town for the game, and he's in the stands with his new girlfriend, a woman named Mandy who makes Stan's stomach queasy, though she seems nice enough. Tomorrow, he's got to sit through a dinner with his parents and Shelly, who is already home for winter break. His parents are “friends” now, and that concept is about as comforting as a dinner fork between the eyes.   
  
"Look alive, Marsh," the head coach says, whacking Stan's shoulder on his way past. Stan nods and picks up his helmet. He tries to push it all away: the recruiters who will surely be in the crowd, the uncertainty of a future where he'll have to decide between colleges, his parents. He only wants to think about Kyle, and how Kyle might not let Stan have him if he doesn't win tonight. Kyle is a stickler for the rules, likes to play within clear boundaries, and apparently even gets off on it. Stan will win tonight because he's got to have Kyle, needs it bad. And, hell, he might as well call the decision about college what it is: he'll go to whatever school is closest to where Kyle is going, all other factors notwithstanding. He smiles, thinking this, strapping his helmet on. He's not sure why he was confused on this point before, because it seems so obvious now. He gets joy from football, but he gets peace, ectascy, comfort, semi-intelligible lectures about string theory, and pretty much everything else from Kyle. Since Stan's parents' divorce, Kyle has become something bigger, too: his real home, the place where he belongs.  
  
It's maybe the best game he's ever played, not counting that one in sixth grade when most of North Park's starters had food poisoning. Stan feels weightless and invincible, shooting through every attempt at defense like the Road Runner evading the Coyote. He's giddy by the fourth quarter, and can tell that his teammates are afraid to look him in the eye because they think they might jinx him; he can feel their elated energy anyway, and when the game is over – South Park on top, 49-7 – everyone abandons their superstitious humility and runs screaming at Stan, hoisting him above a spontaneous mosh pit. Stan can only laugh until his cheeks hurt, staring up at the few visible stars. He can feel Kyle close by, watching this, laughing until his cheeks hurt, too. As soon as he's able to extricate himself from the celebration, he runs for the chain link fence.   
  
Kyle is there with Stan's parents, with Mandy and Shelly and even Wendy, who Stan hasn't seen at a game all season. They're all loud and almost unintelligible with excitement, hugging Stan over the fence. His ears are buzzing, and he can barely hear what he says in response to their congratulations: something about the other team's defense looking kind of tired, their quarterback throwing two interceptions. They dismiss his attempts to dismiss himself, and Stan laughs, self-conscious and proud, meeting Kyle's eyes every two or three seconds; he can't remember the last time they looked this green, or this effortlessly bright, or something. It's like Kyle knows, without having to hear it from Stan, that tonight is the night when Stan knows for sure that they'll never be parted.   
  
"We're going out," Randy announces, probably four or five beers into the evening. "To celebrate. Yeah, gang? Whattya say?"  
  
"Tomorrow, Dad," Stan says, his heart hammering at the thought that he might get stuck with his family for hours, only able to touch Kyle's leg under the table. "Right? Tonight I just want to sleep."   
  
"You're the boss," Randy says. He winks at Stan and flicks his chin toward the cheerleaders, like he knows Stan well enough to suspect that he'd rather get laid than celebrate with his family, but not well enough to guess that Kyle is the one he wants to put his rocks to. Stan glances at Kyle to see if he caught this, and of course he has; he gives Stan a timid grin.   
  
Stan doesn't bother to shower, too aware of how rare this combination of victory and certainty is, how quickly it will be over. He's almost running toward his car, and Kyle is laughing when Stan gets there, leaning against the hood, his breath visible in the frigid air. Stan wants to open his mouth and swallow it whole: all of Kyle, everything. It takes a lot for him to stop himself from kissing Kyle right here in the high school parking lot, fans still streaming toward their cars.  
  
"I aced the test," Kyle says.   
  
"Me, too," Stan says. He grabs Kyle's wrists, squeezes them. "And, um. Are you okay with me, like. Picking my college based on where you go? 'Cause that's what I want. If it wouldn't be too, I don't know. Lame?"  
  
Kyle is quiet for one worrying moment, and then he smiles, though he looks like he might cry. He laughs and looks away, lets out his breath.  
  
"Stan," he says. "Don't be stupid."   
  
"Stupid?"  
  
"I – I'm gonna do that. Okay? Wherever you want to go, whatever school can give you the most money, or the best team, or whatever you want. I'll go somewhere close. My grades are good. I can get in anywhere. So don't worry."  
  
"No – dude! You're actually, like, good at school. I like football, but whatever, it's not that big of a deal -"   
  
"Yes, it is!" Kyle looks like Stan just told him that there's no Santa Claus. "Tonight – the way you are out there, and afterward, you're so happy –"  
  
"Dude, who's being stupid?" Stan says. "I'm happy afterward because I know I'm gonna go home with you. And I won tonight because – uh." He swallows, and pulls Kyle toward the passenger side door of his car, ready to get out of here. "Because I was thinking about, you know. After."  
  
"After?"  
  
"How I'd have to, um," Stan says. He lifts the flap of Kyle's hat and puts his lips against Kyle's ear. "Win you." He feels Kyle shudder, and checks over his shoulder to see if anyone is spying on them.   
  
"Dude," Kyle says, and Stan pulls back, looks into his eyes. Kyle swallows hard, reaching up under Stan's sweat-soaked jersey to find the hem of his jeans, hands shaking. "Take me home, okay?"  
  
"Home?" Stan's heart sinks, because if Kyle doesn't want him tonight, he might not survive until morning. Kyle grins.  
  
"I mean, to your house," Kyle says. "I mean – to your bed. Home."  
  
Stan drives too fast, but no cop in South Park would give him a ticket tonight. He's a local hero, the most admired person in town for at least the next ten hours or so. Kyle is holding Stan's thigh while he drives, his fingers clenching when Stan punches the gas. Usually he tells Stan to slow down, to be careful, but tonight he just breathes hard, his hand moving further up Stan's leg, until he's all but holding onto Stan's dick while they blast through the town's quiet streets.   
  
"So, I have to tell you," Stan says, his hands tightening around the steering wheel as Kyle's fingers pinch in around his leg. "I would have, uh, wanted to fuck you even if you got an F on that test."   
  
"But," Kyle says. "You still would have, um. Made me beg, right?"  
  
"Oh, fuck," Stan says, muttering, almost running a stop sign. He slams on the brakes, and they both jerk forward against their seat belts. Stan looks over at Kyle, suddenly acutely aware that he reeks of dried sweat and dead grass. "I'm still gonna make you beg."  
  
Kyle whimpers, nods, and Stan's tires squeal as he races through the intersection, almost home.  
  
It's maybe his sloppiest parking job ever, but he doesn't care, just needs to get out of the car, into the house. Kyle is impatient, too, stumbling through the yard. Snow has started falling, light and wet on their shoulders as Stan struggles to fit his key into the lock. His mother is still out, probably visiting her boyfriend, and the idea of her being with him has never bothered Stan less. He takes Kyle's hand and pulls him into the dark living room, doesn't put any lights on.   
  
"The bedroom," Kyle says when Stan pushes him against the wall near the stairs, kissing his neck. "Please, please, Stan, upstairs, okay?"  
  
"Okay," Stan says, speaking against Kyle's skin, still kissing him. "Okay, yeah." He puts his hands over Kyle's hips and starts guiding him up the stairs, but they're both stumbling, shaking, trying to keep necking, and they're four stairs from the top when Stan trips and lands on top of Kyle, who moans and presses his hips back like he thinks Stan planned this.   
  
"You're hard already," Kyle says, laughing. He reaches up to grip the top stair, spreading his legs when Stan grinds down against the seat of his pants.   
  
"I feel like I've been hard all day," Stan says.   
  
"Even when you were playing?"  
  
"Especially then, dude."  
  
"So you had a boner for me while you were scoring touchdowns?" Kyle's eyes are closed, his hips rolling back against Stan's dick so fluidly that Stan is pretty sure he's going to have to fuck Kyle right here.   
  
"I always have one for you," Stan says. "You just don't always get to - _ah_. You don't always get to have it. Not unless you score high on tests, like - like a good boy."   
  
Kyle moans, and Stan slides two fingers into Kyle's mouth, his hips jerking when he feels how hot and soft his tongue is.   
  
"So you were a good boy today, huh?" Stan says, whispering. The house is empty, but his face is still burning like he might be overheard. Kyle nods, sucking Stan's fingers.  
  
"Please," he says when Stan pulls his fingers out. "Please, I was good, I promise."   
  
"I know you were," Stan says. His whole body is buzzing in a disorienting fashion, and if they fuck on the stairs they might fall down them; he barely knows the difference between the ceiling and the floor at the moment. He pulls Kyle up from the stairs, and Kyle moves with him willingly, toward the bedroom, his eyelids half-lowered. He seems hypnotized, and as soon as Stan is on him Kyle wraps around him and presses his face to Stan's neck, breathing deep.   
  
"You're still all dirty," Kyle says, his hand pushing up into Stan's hair.   
  
"You want me like this?" Stan asks. "Or you want to wait until I've cleaned up?" He's only asking because he already knows the answer. Kyle shakes his head.   
  
"No, please," he says. He's tugging at Stan's jersey, trying to work it off of him. "Now, please, I need it."  
  
"You been wet for me all day?" Stan asks, not sure if he's crossing some kind of dirty talk line. Kyle moans and writhes underneath him, his cheeks going red as he nods.   
  
"Dude," he says. "At lunch today - what you said. It made me, like, pre-come. Here, feel it."   
  
He takes Stan's hand and pushes it down past the open fly of his jeans, into his boxers. Kyle's cock is hard, leaking, his boxers damp and sticky. Kyle sighs and spreads his legs open wider while Stan strokes him, rubbing his thumb in circles around the wet tip.   
  
"Did you miss any questions on your test?" Stan asks. "'Cause you were thinking about having my hand right here?"  
  
"Nnh, no," Kyle says. He's squirming, his head thrown back. "I was good. I got 'em all."  
  
"You didn't even think about it a little, after lunch?"  
  
"Maybe." Kyle opens his eyes, peeks at Stan. "A little."  
  
"What'd you think about? Getting rubbed off? Getting fucked?"  
  
"I thought about blowing you," Kyle says. Stan hopes Kyle never forgets how to blush like this when they're in bed together. "About how, when you won, I'd get on my knees and suck your dick through that chain link fence if I could."  
  
"Jesus, Kyle," Stan says, close to blowing his load over that mental image alone. He shoves Kyle's sweater and t-shirt out of the way, crawling up to suck on his left nipple. Kyle shouts like this is brand new, every time, his hands closing into fists in Stan's hair.  
  
"Fingers, your fingers," Kyle says, holding Stan's head against his chest like he's afraid he'll take his mouth away. Stan knows what he wants, to be pulled open slow while Stan leans over him, kissing him, but he has another idea.   
  
"Okay," Stan says, lifting his head. "But undress for me first."   
  
Kyle looks up at him, dazed, like he can't quite interpret the request. When he regains his brain function, he pulls off his undershirt along with his sweater, throwing them onto the floor. He scoots back against Stan's headboard, blushing hard while he pushes his boxers and jeans down.   
  
"Aren't you going to?" Kyle asks. Stan shakes his head. He unzips his jeans and frees his cock, leaving all his clothes on, even his letter jacket.   
  
"This is all you get for now," he says. "Trade places with me."  
  
Kyle moans uncertainly but obeys, and Stan leans against the headboard, his legs spread and his dick on display. Kyle starts to crawl into his lap, but Stan shakes his head.   
  
"Suck me," he says, nodding down at his lap. "Facing away from me." They've only done this a few times, and it can be kind of awkward, but right now it's perfect, Kyle naked and flushed and Stan's dick throbbing against the teeth of his open zipper. Kyle blinks, swallows, and turns to assume the position. Stan helps him, threading Kyle's scrawny legs on either side of his chest, staring down at his flexing hole, the pale curve of his spine.  
  
"Stan," Kyle says, sounding desperate, almost afraid.   
  
"Shh," Stan says, whispering. He gives Kyle's hole a tiny lick, and Kyle yelps, his hips jerking as if he's not sure which direction he wants to move in. His back is arched lewdly, thighs trembling. Stan reaches down to rub his hand across Kyle's shoulders, watching the tension ease from them. Kyle takes a deep breath, lets it out, then licks the head of Stan's cock, tasting him, making him moan low in his throat. There's more licking, teasing strokes of Kyle's tongue that make Stan grunt impatiently, and finally Kyle takes him in fully, hot and soaking wet, sighing around Stan's cock. Stan lets himself go mindless for a moment, eyelids fluttering while Kyle sucks him, then has to refocus on the task at hand: Kyle's ass, the twitching little hole that needs stretching.  
  
The lube is too far away; it will come into play eventually, but for now Stan just uses his tongue, licking all around the rim and then pushing inside the heat of Kyle's body. Kyle whimpers at first, then starts to moan, the reverberations of his throat shaking down the length of Stan's cock. He pulls off when Stan starts using his finger, cursing like he almost hates Stan for this, for how good it feels or how vulnerable he is, or both.   
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Kyle whispers, and Stan can feel the heat of the word against his cock. "Yeah, oh. _Oh_. Shit, Stan, fuck."  
  
"You like that?" Stan asks, dragging his finger out of Kyle more slowly, watching Kyle's skinny hips twitch backward.   
  
"Yeah," Kyle says, moaning the word out. "So good. Fuck, dude."   
  
"Like it enough to come like this?" Stan asks. "I could come in your mouth. Let your ass off the hook."  
  
"No, please," Kyle says, and Stan thought he might laugh, 'cause this is obviously the game they planned on playing, but he sounds sincerely distraught. "Please, I need your cock, need it, need you to come in me -"  
  
"Alright, calm down," Stan says, pleased. He leaves his finger where it is for the moment, in up to the knuckle, and grins when Kyle wibbles and pushes back, wanting Stan to fuck him with it again. He reaches under Kyle's belly and finds his cock, which is sticky with precome.   
  
"Don't make me come," Kyle begs as Stan strokes him. "Not yet."  
  
"When do you want to come?" Stan asks. "Hmm? You've been good, you can pick."   
  
"When you're in me." Kyle gets like this sometimes, almost sobbing, usually when Stan talks to him like this, guiding him through getting fucked like a gentle doctor: _okay, now you'll feel some pressure, this might sting a bit, try to relax_.   
  
"When I'm in you," Stan says. "You're so sure I'm going to be in you? You think you've earned it?"  
  
"Stan, fuck," Kyle says. He puts his face against Stan's thigh and sighs, moving his hips more forcefully now. "Ha - have I?"  
  
"I think so," Stan says, not sure if he should be amused or disturbed by the fact that Kyle doesn't seem sure about how this will end. Kyle is not this good of an actor, he's just lost to it, shaking in Stan's hands.   
  
"But," Stan says, and Kyle goes rigid. "More importantly, I won. So that means I get to fuck you. Right?"  
  
"Right," Kyle nods, and starts lapping at Stan's dick again, as if to win him over. "Right, yeah, uh-huh."  
  
"Or maybe the deal was just that you'd blow me if I won? Hmm."  
  
"Oh, please," Kyle says, whispering now, his lips moving against the head of Stan's cock. "Please, please."  
  
"Why do you need this so bad?" Stan asks. He's teasing, but it's also a sincere question. They tried switching once, and Stan didn't really see how Kyle could get off on this, being the one on the bottom. He was afraid Kyle would be upset, but Kyle seemed very happy to hear that he hadn't liked it.   
  
"I don't know," Kyle said, his head moving back and forth on Stan's leg, as if he's trying to nuzzle him into action. Stan's finger is moving so slow now, not enough makeshift lube for anything harder.   
  
"I think it's 'cause you're a good boy," Stan says. He takes his hand from Kyle's cock and rubs it over the small of his back. "And you like making me feel good."   
  
"Yes," Kyle says. He hoists himself up with shaking arms, bracing himself on his palms. "Yeah, that's why, oh, fuck, and -"  
  
"And?" Stan slides his finger out when Kyle doesn't answer, and Kyle sighs as Stan pulls him back against his chest, hugging him there.   
  
"And I like, um." Kyle turns to look at him shyly, then stares down at his shoulder. "Feeling close to you. When you're out on the field you're so far away, sometimes I'm not even sure it's you until I see the number on the back of your jersey. It's like you're not mine anymore."  
  
"Dude -"  
  
"And at school, we can't touch each other. Not like normal couples. So when we can, you know, when we're alone, I just want you as close as I can get you. In me, that's the best I can do, when you're inside me."  
  
"Kyle." Stan tips Kyle's chin toward his and rubs his cheek against Kyle's. He would be kissing the fuck out of him, but Kyle is a hygiene freak and won't take post-rimming kisses, no matter how sentimental the moment. Kyle looks at Stan and smiles, touching his jaw.   
  
"I know it's stupid," he says.  
  
"It's not stupid. God, you're so smart. I mean, that's why I like this, too. I just don't have the words. And, dude, hey." He pinches Kyle's nipple, which makes him squirm and laugh. "I'm always yours."  
  
They have face-to-face sex, and the fact that Stan can't kiss Kyle only makes it more intense, their eyes locked, noses bumping. Stan alternates between relentless pounding and drawing out his thrusts until Kyle cries and squeezes his arms hard, his nails digging into Stan's skin.   
  
"Harder, please," he finally says, his eyes pinching shut as if he can't bear to look Stan in the eye while he begs for it. "Please, Stan, God, fuck, I'm so close."  
  
"Stroke yourself off," Stan says. He sits back on his knees, surveying Kyle's wide open body, his trembling chest. His cock is hard against his stomach, legs shaking. "Come for me," Stan says. "And I'll fuck you through it."   
  
Kyle whines and obeys, his whole face tense while his hand moves on his cock. Stan isn't actually going to make him do this himself, but he watches for awhile, thinking about how he used to envision this when he jerked himself off, before they'd ever touched each other. He would wonder how Kyle moved his wrist, what he used for lube, if he bit his hand to try to keep quiet. It took Stan a ridiculously long time to realize that other guys didn't constantly ask themselves these kinds of questions about their best friends.  
  
When Stan takes over Kyle moans with relief, his hand dropping to the mattress. He relaxes in Stan's grip, shoulders back, mouth open, eyes closed. Stan fucks him in short, sharp thrusts, and Kyle shouts every time, his eyebrows knitting.   
  
"Come on," Stan says, speeding up, fucking him deeper. "Come for me, let's see it. Like a good boy."  
  
Kyle makes a helpless noise that would be kind of hilarious if Stan wasn't about to come, too. It sends him over the edge, watching Kyle's come slide down over his knuckles, Kyle's bones liquefying and his chest heaving as Stan pumps him dry. Stan is about two seconds behind, slamming into Kyle when he finally unloads, making a noise that's no more dignified than Kyle's was. He collapses down onto him, sweaty and dizzy, the smell of Kyle's skin calming his sense of disorientation. Kyle's hands help, too, one sliding across his back and the other pushing into his hair.  
  
"Dude," Kyle says, softly, astonished. Stan presses his face to Kyle's neck and grins. It's the highest praise he's ever gotten, better than the whole cheering crowd on Friday night: _Dude_. Stan stays in him long enough to start falling asleep, Kyle's hands going still.   
  
"I'm gonna take a shower," Stan says, and Kyle snorts when Stan doesn't move.   
  
"Maybe you should take a bath," Kyle says. "You could just lay there and I could, like. Wash you."  
  
"How many of your fantasies are we gonna play out tonight?" Stan asks. Kyle flicks his shoulder.   
  
"Like I said, you dick. It's called _affection_."   
  
Stan knows that, and feels it when they're in the hallway bathroom together, the two of them barely contained by the tub. He sits between Kyle's legs and dozes in and out of consciousness as Kyle rubs a soapy washcloth over him.   
  
"Dude," Stan says, mumbling, talking in his sleep. "That feels so good."   
  
"Okay, but don't fall asleep on me for real," Kyle says. "I don't want to be trapped in here all night."   
  
They get out before that can happen, and Kyle observantly watches Stan brush his teeth. When he's satisfied that all traces of his ass have been purged from Stan's mouth, he leans up to give him a kiss, still a little cautious.  
  
"I don't know what you're worried about," Stan says as they walk across the hall to his bedroom. "You have a pristine ass. Like, it's almost weird."  
  
"I'm kind of OCD about being clean," Kyle says, only blushing a little as he sits on Stan's bed, the bath towel wrapped around his waist. Outside, the snow is still coming down, just a blur beyond the steamed up window. Stan drops his towel on the floor and flops onto the bed, face down. Kyle pulls the blankets up over them and draws Stan in close, kissing his cheek.   
  
"You gonna come watch me in the playoffs?" Stan asks, his calm beginning to evaporate. It's a whole new level of anxiety, and his stomach will be unsettled for weeks before the game.   
  
"Yeah, of course," Kyle says. "Should we do another, like. Bet?"  
  
"Sure," Stan says. "God, dude. What if I make it all the way to the pros just because I'm worried I might not get to fuck you if I don't win?"  
  
"I don't want you to play pro football," Kyle says, hugging his shoulders. "It's too brutal, and they don't give the players good health insurance after they retire, and we'd have to be super careful about being seen together –"  
  
"Dude, I wasn't serious," Stan says, laughing. "There's no way I'm good enough to go pro."  
  
"Yes, you are." Kyle touches the hair at the back of Stan's neck, making him shiver. Stan shakes his head, because Kyle is wrong, but it's nice, enough to settle his stomach: Kyle always thinks Stan is going to win. It's the kind of thing that will come in handy long after football is over.


	15. Pitching Tents (A/B/O)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omegaverse (A/B/O) - Kyle realizes he's an omega when he goes into his first heat on a camping trip with Stan, an alpha, who is determined to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for dub-con, attempted non-con, shameless omega Kyle kink, fucked up social politics and other Omegaverse nonsense. 
> 
> This was written for the kink meme but I just don't have the energy for posting it as 18+ comments, and it was going to end up here anyway.

The camping trip starts out great. Perfect weather, the two of them laughing and listening to music in the car on the drive up the mountain, and they even manage to pitch the tent without any major screw-ups. It's the first time their parents have allowed them to go camping alone together, and Kyle plans to spend the entire weekend doing whatever the hell he wants, which will ultimately amount to whatever the hell Stan wants, since he's the nature freak. They have fishing gear and binoculars for bird watching, loads of junk food and a bundle of good firewood brought from home. As the sun begins to set, Kyle sits watching Stan light the campfire, so excited about a whole weekend spent alone with his best friend that he has a kind of tingling sensation in his fingers and toes, and a spreading warmth at the pit of his stomach. 

“Want to cook hot dogs tonight?” Stan asks, still kneeling beside the fire, and that's when Kyle feels the first trickle of sticky lubricant slide from his hole and pool onto the seat of his briefs. 

Kyle clenches hard around this sudden sliminess, his face burning and his heart beginning to pound. It can't be happening, not now, not ever. He's just a late bloomer, not an actual fucking omega, no way. 

“Dude?” Stan says. “Hot dogs?”

“Um, yeah. Okay.”

“What's the matter?” 

“Nothing! Just, I have to take a piss, um, be right back.” 

Kyle hurries away from their campsite, toward the woods. He can sense Stan's surprise and alarm, because typically they would think nothing of having a piss in front of each other. Kyle finds a thick tree trunk to duck behind and bites back tears as he reaches into the back of his pants and in past the waistband of his underwear, already knowing what he will find. He whines and pinches his eyes shut when he feels it: gooey lube flowing from his omega hole, which is already needy and sensitive, his cock beginning to rise as he feels himself. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, everything he's feared about himself since the alphas in his class started puberty now confirmed. He's not going to wake up one day and realize he's an alpha like Stan or a beta like Kenny. He's a broodmare, a fuck toy in heat, and already he's tickling at his puffy little hole with his fingers, wanting to push them inside and knowing it won't be enough to soothe this sudden, intense ache to be _filled_. He thinks of Stan and swallows heavily, his cock throbbing. Stan can't know, he can't find out how different they really are, but of course he'll know everything, at once, when Kyle returns to the campsite and Stan smells it on him. Kyle whines again when he considers the fact that Stan might even be able to smell him from here, his alpha senses naturally fine-tuned to find omegas in heat. 

Kyle walks back to the campsite with his eyes cast down and his cock still semi-hard. His hole feels like an itch that needs scratching and his entire body seems too empty, jittery with need. The slick is cold and wet in his underwear, and more keeps seeping out. 

“Dude?” Stan says when Kyle finally looks up at him. Stan has impaled a raw hot dog on a stick that he is holding uncertainly. Kyle sees Stan's nostrils twitch, and he has to look away again when Stan's eyes change, his pupils darkening. “Kyle,” Stan says, already speaking to him as if he's a different person: very softly, either in sympathy or awe. 

“I—” Kyle says. “I'm fine, I just. It's fine.” 

When Stan puts the hot dog down and gets up, Kyle realizes he can smell Stan, too, and it's not his usual scent, as comforting and familiar as video games and sugary cereal on a Saturday morning. Stan smells like alpha, which is a phrase Kyle has heard before, on television dramas and at school, but until this moment he'd only thought he had some idea what that meant. It's heady enough to make Kyle's knees weak, frightening and attractive and hitting Kyle in tidal waves that envelope him in arousal so powerful it's almost nauseating. It's brutally omnipresent, flooding Kyle's senses: Stan's cock could put babies inside him. Kyle falters on his feet and goes limp when Stan comes forward to steady him.

“It's okay,” Stan says, whispering. “Kyle, hey, don't be scared. I'm not. You're safe.”

“What? I know.” Kyle pulls away, beginning to sweat. His ass was itchy for stimulation before, but now he feels like he's been set on fire with white hot need, and he knows it's because of the proximity of an available alpha, of Stan. “Fuck,” Kyle says, and he kicks the wood pile, sending the kindling flying. “Stan, I. I don't know what to do.” 

“We can go back to town,” Stan says. “There's medicine you can take, um. For the heat.” 

Kyle groans as the thought of a long car ride with this burning ache in his ass. The need to be penetrated is already making his hands twitch with the desire to at least try to plug it with his fingers. He shakes his head and pulls at his hair, gritting his teeth. Every ragged, worried breath that Stan takes feels as if it's landing against Kyle's cock and teasing in hot gusts over his hole. 

“No,” Kyle says, pacing. “I don't want to go into town and get stared at by every alpha in the tri-county area who can smell a virgin omega in heat, begging for meds.” He thinks of Cartman, the sneering smile he'll wear when he finds out that Kyle is a fucking omega after all, just like Cartman always said he would be. “Just, no,” Kyle says, biting the words out. “I want to wait it out, here, away from everyone. I can get through this, and get the meds for next time, once it's over.” 

“God,” Stan says, and his voice sounds broken. Kyle turns. Stan smiles shakily, touching his hips and his ear before folding his arms tightly over his chest. “Kyle.” 

“What? What, Stan? Why are you looking at me like that? Jesus, are you _glad_?”

“No! I mean. But I could. Help? If you want?”

“What, by jamming your alpha cock up my ass?”

“No, jesus, no,” Stan says, but Kyle knows that's what he was thinking; he can smell it, and now Stan looks guilty. “I don't have a condom,” Stan says, mumbling now. “So.” 

Kyle won't let himself look down, because if he sees that Stan is hard for him, for this, he might drop to his knees and rub his face against Stan's alpha-smelling dick. He paces, gritting his teeth and wondering if this is going to get worse before it gets better. 

“Does your phone get reception up here?” Kyle asks.

“I think so,” Stan says. “You want me to call your mom?”

“What! Fuck no, are you crazy! She's the last person I want to be around while I'm dealing with this, ugh, she's such a smug alpha bitch. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Stan says, and he pulls out his phone. “I've got a few bars. Who do you want me to call?”

“Nobody!” It's humiliating to let Stan see him like this, but he's also kind of the ideal support system Kyle needs right now, minus the fact that he's got a dick that could make Kyle pregnant. “Let's go into the tent,” Kyle says. “And, uh. Search the internet for what to do for an omega who's in heat and can't--” Kyle stops himself from saying 'breed.' “Can't, um. Get fuh-- filled.” 

“Right,” Stan says, his face ablaze. “Good thinking, yeah.” 

Kyle sits against the back wall inside the tent, rocking miserably and feeling more lube pooling into his underwear. Stan's scent is overwhelming inside the cramped space, and Kyle wants to lick Stan's neck, rub himself all over him and slobber worshipfully onto Stan's big dick before riding it. But smelling Stan like this, now, is also making Kyle want to be _pregnant_ , and that's not him, that's just his traitorous body, so he can't trust anything he's feeling at the moment.

“Let's see,” Stan says, reading from his phone. “How to satisfy unchecked omega heat without getting pregnant.” He's got his jacket bunched over his lap, but he can't hide his erection from Kyle; Stan's scent changed as soon as his dick got hard. It got stronger, scarier, more perfect. “Okay, um. You can st-stimulate yourself with fingers, but it works-- oh.”

“What?” Kyle snaps. “Just tell me, I've got to do something, it's starting to really fucking hurt--”

“Okay, well, it says it works better if it's somebody else's fingers, or somebody else using, uh. A toy, on the omega. Preferably an alpha.” 

Stan gives Kyle an apologetic look. Kyle continues rocking, wanting to tear his pants off, spread his legs and let Stan shove anything he likes up his ass, preferably his cock. 

“Can we still be friends if we do this?” Kyle asks, trying not to cry. Stan nods frantically, sitting up onto his knees.

“Of course, dude,” he says. “I just want to help, god, Kyle, I want to help so bad.”

“You want to fuck me,” Kyle says, and Stan's eyes darken. “It's okay. It's just biology, but. Will you be able to control yourself if, like. My ass is on display for you?”

“Yes,” Stan says. He doesn't sound certain, but Kyle unbuttons his jeans anyway, fingers shaking. “Wow,” Stan says when Kyle pushes down his pants and underwear, almost too desperate to be embarrassed. 

“Don't say it,” Kyle snaps. “I know. I'm wet. I'm fucking soaked.”

“You're really hard,” Stan says. “That's what I was gonna say.”

“Well. I guess that goes with the territory.” Kyle sucks in a shaky breath and attempts to meet Stan's eyes. Stan is crouching on the ground, waiting, and his stance could possibly be interpreted as pre-pounce. “Please, just,” Kyle says, holding his hands out. “Be careful with me, okay?”

“Dude,” Stan says. “Of course. I swear, like. Don't you know you can trust me?”

“Yes.” Kyle looks down at his cock, wanting to cover himself. “Just admit that you would do it if I let you,” Kyle says, quietly. “You would breed me right now. Part of you wants it.” 

“Just my body,” Stan says. “I mean, fuck, yes, you smell-- so good, Kyle, damn, you just need it-- but you're my best friend and I don't want to ruin your life by knocking you up!” Stan says, rushing that part out. “You've got to, um, go to college and have a life and stuff, and maybe you don't even-- want kids, really? So, so. Yeah.” 

“Even if we did it with a condom,” Kyle says, sitting down across from Stan. “That would mean.” 

“We'd be bonded,” Stan says, nodding. He swallows, his hands flinching toward Kyle. “And we're. Too young, I mean, you're my best friend--”

“Let's try your fingers,” Kyle says, not wanting to have this conversation now, or maybe ever. He sighs and leans back onto his elbows, spreading his legs to show Stan his hard dick, heavy balls, and the slick hole awaiting his attention. Stan seems mesmerized for a moment, and Kyle has to hold in a whimper when Stan licks his lips, his pupils so fat now that his eyes are almost entirely black. 

“Dude,” Stan says, whispering. “You. God, it's, you're so-- you really want me to touch you?”

“Yes, please!” Being on offer like this – to an alpha, to Stan – is making Kyle's empty ache so powerful that he wants to tear at his own skin. He breathes out hard through his nose as Stan moves closer, his eyes trained on Kyle's wet hole. 

“Okay,” Stan says. His breath is a little choppy as he comes onto all fours, sort of crawling toward Kyle's ass. “Um, I'm gonna. Put a blanket under your butt, okay? So I can. Access you better.”

“Yes,” Kyle says, so emphatically that he barely recognizes his own voice. He had no idea it would feel this good to have an alpha telling him what he's going to do next, giving him instructions, and he hates it but wants more. He tilts his hips back and allows Stan to put a folded blanket under him, angling Kyle's hole upward, toward Stan. Their eyes meet, and Kyle swallows the excess moisture in his mouth, feeling globs of lube leaking from him now, onto the blanket. He takes his legs by the backs of his knees and holds them open, giving Stan the last permission he needs. Under his breath, Stan makes a sound that's a bit like a growl, and Kyle moans in response. 

“You're so fucking wet,” Stan says, his eyes still locked on Kyle's. 

“Yeah,” Kyle says, not caring anymore. His cock is leaking, too, dribbling onto his shirt. His breath catches in his throat when Stan leans down to lap at his wet hole, licking him in wide, hungry swaths. “Jesus!” Kyle cries, arching into it involuntarily. “Stan, what the fuck! Don't, it's dirty.”

“Not dirty,” Stan says, and he licks Kyle again, moaning. “Fuck, you taste good, Kyle, so good.”

“Nnn, fingers!” Kyle says, begging, and Stan grunts. 

“Sorry,” he says, lifting his head. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, then brings his fingers to Kyle's hole, tickling over the slickness. Kyle is breathing in hard little pants already, his legs straining to spread wider. “You're all puffy,” Stan says, and Kyle can't tell now if the softness in his voice is kind or predatory. “God, look at this puffy little omega hole, you're so ready.” 

“I am,” Kyle cries. “Please, just put them in, please--”

Stan answers his pleas by sliding two fingers into him, slowly. Kyle groans, already aware that even a third and a fourth will never be enough, but it does feel good to have Stan touching him like this, feeling how wet and warm he is. Kyle nods and Stan leans over him, feeling his way up under Kyle's shirt until he finds a hard nipple to pinch and rub with the pad of his thumb. All of this feels good, but also like a tease, and Kyle can't stop thinking of Stan's hard alpha cock, trapped in his pants and dripping for Kyle's scent. Kyle knows it would feel good, not just to be fucked by Stan's dick but to be knotted, filled with alpha come, knocked up. He groans and throws his head back, trying to fuck himself on Stan's fingers. 

“I need something bigger,” Kyle says, shaking his head, his eyes pinched shut. “I can't stop thinking about, about-- I'm starting to go crazy, I need something else.” 

“Okay,” Stan says. He pets Kyle's belly and twists his fingers inside him. “I'll find something.” 

“The hot dogs,” Kyle says. He peeks at Stan, embarrassed. “You could get one warm, over the fire. Let it cool off until it won't burn me and then, then. Fuck me with it.” 

“They are jumbo franks,” Stan says, his expression very serious. Kyle manages to laugh, and it feels good when Stan smiles down at him: adoringly, approvingly. 

“Hurry,” Kyle says. 

“What will you do while I'm cooking it?” Stan asks, removing his fingers slowly. Kyle groans and throws his head from side to side, already desperate to be filled again.

“I'll wait,” Kyle says, panting. “Please, just. Come back as fast as you can. I need you to take care of me, Stan.” He hears the way he whined Stan's name out and hates it, but Stan doesn't seem to mind. He's hovering over Kyle like he's afraid to leave him and also thinking about kissing him. 

“I'll be right back,” Stan says. “And if you need me, I'll be right out there, cooking a hot dog dildo for you.”

“Kay. Thanks, dude. I love you.” Kyle didn't mean to say that last part. He fidgets, wanting to jam his whole hand into his ass. Stan is still hovering like he's waiting for a goodbye kiss. 

“I love you, too,” Stan says, whispering. “You were right, before. I'm kinda glad.” 

“Asshole,” Kyle says, his voice breaking. “I knew it.” 

“You're just so-- perfect,” Stan says, breathy. His musk is all around Kyle like a cloud now, blanketing him in comfort on one hand and teasing him into itchy desperation on the other. Stan closes his eyes and puts his cheek against Kyle's, taking a deep breath. “You smell like you're already mine,” he says, whispering. Kyle huffs.

“That's just 'cause you're a– and I'm. Go cook that hot dog, please!”

“Okay, alright, yeah.”

Kyle jams his fists into eyes when Stan is gone, struggling to contain a primal scream. This isn't the first time he's felt something more than friendship for Stan, and he's botching everything up by gushing 'I love you' and asking Stan to shove a warm hot dog up his ass. As he feared, being an omega is ruining everything, taking away his agency and poisoning the one relationship that he cherishes more than any other. He reaches down to feel his hole, hisses at the sensitively and grinds his teeth together when his fingertips offer no relief. He's even wetter now, puffier and more empty-feeling than ever. 

“Are you alright?” Stan asks when he returns to the tent, carrying a cooked hot dog in a paper towel. Kyle is whining, frigging his fingertips against his empty hole to try to alleviate the burning need for stimulation. It's not really helping, but the smell of Stan – and the hot dog – is a relief. 

“Is it cool enough to go in?” Kyle asks. 

“Give it another minute,” Stan says. “Don't want to burn you.” 

“God,” Kyle says. “This is torture. Does it, um. Does it hurt for you, too?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, and he swallows. “Not, not from holding back, like, I'm fine. You don't have to worry. But it hurts to see you like this and feel like I'm not helping you, like I've got what you need and I'm keeping it from you.” 

“Have you ever fooled around with an omega?” Kyle asks, muttering.

“No, dude. I've never even been around one who's in heat. It's crazy how strong it is. All I can think about since you came back from the edge of the woods is, uh.”

“What?” Kyle asks, though he knows. It's all he can think about, too. Stan looks down at the hot dog and whines a little, shaking his head. 

“All I can think about,” Stan says, his voice shaking, “Is pumping you full of come, trapping you on my knot and putting my kid in you. Watching you get fat with it, jesus. When I touched your nipple before I was thinking, um.” He hesitates, giving Kyle an apologetic look. Kyle is enraged by this, but so hard, holding his leaking cock.

“Say it,” Kyle says, his teeth grit. 

“I was thinking about my kid sucking on your tit, and me watching you feed the babies that I'd put in you, just. Fucked up alpha stuff. I'm sorry.” 

“God,” Kyle says, reaching up under his shirt to touch his nipple. It's still a little sore from Stan's pinching and rubbing. “Put it in me,” Kyle says, meaning Stan's dick, but he knows they can't really do that. “The hot dog.” 

“Okay, yeah.” Stan unwraps the hot dog and tosses the paper towel aside. The hot dog is slightly charred from the fire, and Kyle whimpers at the thought of black ash staining the rim of his hole, but he wants the thing in him bad enough not to care. Stan presses the tip of it to Kyle's hole and Kyle goes crazy, throwing his head back and shouting, because it feels so good, warm and round like the head of a cock brushing his hole, but way too small to please him. 

“Put it in,” he cries anyway. He touches his nipples as Stan presses the hot dog into him, and thinks about Stan's hungry babies at his teats, heavy and warm in his arms, drinking his milk while a third baby grows in his stomach. Stan would be watching this from across the room with a small smile, his cock getting stiff as he imagines making Kyle pregnant again and again. Kyle doesn't want to get pregnant, now or probably ever, but the thought that Stan could do that to him is so fucking arousing that he's dizzy, drooling. 

“Oh god,” Stan says, his head lowered so that he can watch up-close as the hot dog sinks deeper into Kyle. “Fuck, I want to lick you again,” Stan says. “I want to eat this thing out of your ass and then stick my dick in its place.” 

“You can't,” Kyle says, crying a little. “Stan, jesus, but _I want you to_.”

“I know. Shhh, don't worry. I can control myself. We're okay.” 

He begins to fuck Kyle with the hot dog in long, slow strokes. Kyle's ass is spasming around it in a kind of disbelief at the inadequacy of the object that is penetrating it, and he tries not to clench hard enough to break a piece of it off inside him. 

“Tell me about your dick,” Kyle says, breaking into a sweat. Being filled only halfway, even with something dick-shaped and warm, is only making his ache for the real thing more intense. “Tell me, Stan, is it big?”

“It's so big, dude,” Stan says, sounding like he might cry about it. “And thick, a real alpha cock. Made to fuck a wet omega hole that needs filling. God, it would feel so good, Kyle, I'd stretch your virgin ass so goddamn wide on my dick.”

“Yes,” Kyle cries, wailing. “You would, you'd make me so full, I can smell it on you.” 

“Yeah,” Stan says, fucking Kyle faster with the hot dog. “I'd push in until my balls were all snug up against your ass, rubbing on that stretched-open hole. You'd scream when you felt my knot, when you knew you were mine forever.” 

“Stan!” Kyle says, jerking his hips down to meet the futile efforts of the hot dog. “Stan, oh my god.” 

“Dude, I know, I know.” 

“You've got to find something bigger,” Kyle says, sobbing and shaking his head. “We're losing our shit, dude. We're gonna do something stupid.”

“Fuck.” Stan sighs and removes the hot dog gently. “I know, shit. You're right. Let me look, hold tight.” 

Stan starts rummaging through his overnight bag while Kyle sniffles and wipes at his face, shaking. All he can think about now is Stan's knot, Stan's fucking knot claiming him, expanding inside Kyle's fucked-open hole while he screamed in helpless ecstasy– why did he have to mention the goddamn knot?

“Oh, hey,” Stan says. “This might work. But, um, it's pretty big.”

He pulls out a large black flashlight, and Kyle moans at the sight of it. The handle is rounded at the edges but basically square in shape, and it looks way too thick to fit inside him without pain. He thinks again of Stan's knot and clenches around his soggy emptiness, groaning. 

“Try it,” Kyle says. “I've got to try something, fuck. I want you in me so fucking bad.”

“I know,” Stan says, huffing his breath. “We've got to try this or, I don't know, maybe I just need to get away from you, if this doesn't work.”

“No!” Red hot alarm flashes through Kyle at the thought of being here in the wilderness, in heat, and Stan abandoning him to suffer through it alone. “No, please, try the flashlight. I think it will work.” 

He's lying, but he needs to try something, because he can't get pregnant, he won't, and even if they acquire condoms somehow, he can't trick Stan into bonding to him like this, when they're both out of their minds with lust. 

“Okay,” Stan says, positioning the end of the flashlight against Kyle's hole, which is sloppy with lube now. The flashlight feels weird, inorganic and cold. Kyle braces himself and takes hold of his legs again, letting out a long breath and trying to relax for it. “Ready?” Stan asks, sounding a little scared himself. 

“Yes,” Kyle says. “Go slow.” 

“I will, baby,” Stan says, and he snorts. “Sorry,” he says when Kyle peeks at him, grinning in disbelief. “I don't know why I said that.” 

“It sounded pretty stupid, dude.”

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“Ah,” Kyle says when the flashlight starts to breach him, and he closes his eyes. It hurts, but it's a relief in another way, the stretch of his hole promising that he's going to be filled at last, deep and wide. He grits his teeth and hisses as the first few inches press in, solid and unforgiving against the walls of his ass. 

“Is it too big?” Stan asks, whispering. “God, you're. Open really wide, Kyle. It's all red and super puffy.” 

“Don't take it out,” Kyle says. “Push, push in one more inch and then just leave it for a second.” He groans when Stan complies. “Another inch,” Kyle says. “Another. Keep going. God, yeah, I want it deep, ahhh, just. Slow.” 

Kyle clenches his fists and throws his head back, trembling as he tries to ignore the pain that's accompanying the relief of being full. The deeper the flashlight gets, the more conscious he is of its squareness and the corners that are digging uncomfortably into the walls of his ass, making him afraid that he might tear. 

“Ow, ow, ow!” he shouts when he can't hold it in anymore, and Stan moans sadly. 

“It's too big, dude,” he says. “Or, just, not the right shape, um. You're all tense. I'm taking it out.”

“Noo,” Kyle says, but it's a relief when Stan draws the flashlight out of him slowly. As soon as the last of it pops out of him the relief evaporates, and he feels emptier than ever. He's grown incredibly wet in the process of trying to get the flashlight in, and he wails in misery when he feels lube slopping out of his stretched-out hole. 

“Kyle,” Stan says. “Oh, god. I'm sorry. Are you okay?”

“No, I'm not okay!” Kyle lifts his head and glares at Stan. “I need. I need-- you know what I need!”

“Fuck, yeah, I do, Kyle, but--”

“Just be quiet,” Kyle says, feeling insane. He sits up, whining when doing so seems to make the intensity of his emptiness increase. He crawls forward, toward Stan, and leans down to put his face against Stan's crotch, out of his mind with need. Stan gasps but spreads his knees open, letting Kyle nuzzle at his dick and take deep breaths full of the scent of it. 

“Kyle,” Stan says, his voice choked. “Careful.” 

“I just need to-- just let me, please, um.” Kyle licks at the denim that's covering Stan's trapped erection, and they both whine a little. “Maybe I could just, see it?” Kyle says, trembling. “Maybe lick it a little, maybe that would help?”

“Dude,” Stan says. “You know what that would do. We'd both lose it and I'd end up balls deep in you.” 

“Well, I don't know what else to do, Stan, I feel like I'm going to die of this!” 

“I know what we have to do,” Stan says, and the calm certainty of his alpha inflection is like a balm to Kyle's burning ass. He nods, waiting to hear it. Stan takes a deep breath. “I'm going to drive down to the convenience store we passed at the foot of the mountains,” Stan says. “And I'm going to buy a pack of condoms.” 

“Stan, no!” Kyle says, though he wants that so much his bones ache. “You can't, you. I won't ruin your life just because I'm in heat.”

“Ruin my life?” Stan scoffs and frowns. “Kyle, what? I don't think you understand. I want to bond with you, I want us to be together. Don't you?”

“Well – yeah, but that's just our hormones talking! We have to think about this logically, like, outside of the moment. Think about what you're suggesting, Stan, what it would mean for you. If we bond and then break up later, the worst that happens for me is my ass won't self-lube anymore and I won't be able to get pregnant. Big fucking deal, but if you – later, when you change your mind – you'd only ever able to get hard for me! That's a death sentence!”

“No, it's not,” Stan says. He looks almost angry, still frowning at Kyle. “Dude, I love you. You're my best friend, my favorite person, and I'd be fucking thrilled to spend the rest of my life only getting hard for you. The only reason I never said anything is, uh. I wasn't sure you were an omega. I thought you might go through the change, end up being an alpha or a beta and want to be with someone else, some omega guy or girl.” 

“Stupid,” Kyle says, his voice breaking. “I'd want you if we were both omegas.”

“You're sure that's not the hormones talking?” Stan asks, raising his eyebrows. Kyle snorts and shakes his head. 

“Stan,” he says, wanting to cling to him and afraid that if he does they'll decide that Kyle should get pregnant during their bonding, too. “Can we really do this?”

“I've wanted to since I was about twelve,” Stan says. “When you asked me, before, if I was glad you turned out omega? Jesus, I'm so fucking happy, Kyle. You're everything I want.” 

“Why?” Kyle asks, still feeling pathetic, his ass leaking everywhere after having a flashlight stuffed up it. “I'm just this desperate slut in heat.” 

Stan snorts and closes his eyes. “No,” he says. “You sound like Cartman. Only assholes like him think that way. I'm your alpha and I think you're a miracle. You're beautiful like this.” 

“You're my alpha,” Kyle says, and he smiles. 

“If you want,” Stan says. 

“Oh, please, Stan. You know I do.” 

“I want to kiss you,” Stan says, his voice shaking. “But.” 

“Yeah, we can't. Not yet, not before you get condoms. Hurry, okay?”

“Won't you come with me?” Stan asks, standing. His legs seem wobbly, maybe just from doing so much kneeling before the altar of Kyle's omega ass.

“I don't want to,” Kyle says, wincing. “Not while I'm like this. People will smell it on me and stare at the dumb virgin who doesn't have heat meds. It won't take you that long, and I've got my phone.” 

“I'll be back as fast as I can,” Stan says. 

“Don't drive crazy, though! The mountain roads are tricky. If you die in a fiery car crash because I need to get fucked I'll go ahead and throw myself off the mountain, too.” 

“Dude,” Stan says. “Don't joke about dying right now.” His hands are flexing at his sides. “I'm feeling really, like. Protective of you, already.” 

“Oh, so you're going to be one of those alphas?” Kyle says, secretly pleased. “Like I can't even blow my nose without your arm around my shoulders? I'll be fine, dude, just hurry.”

“Kay.” Stan looks so torn up; Kyle wants to run to him and nuzzle his crotch again, supportively. He makes himself stay in place, and smiles when Stan blows him a kiss before leaving the tent. 

Kyle lies back and takes a deep breath, listening to the sound of Stan starting up his car and driving away. Once he's gone, a kind of lonesome panic sets in, and Kyle's ass starts throbbing with searing pain, as if to punish him for letting an alpha get away without fucking him. Kyle sits up and whines, rocking, and after a few minutes he can't take it anymore. He has to go walk around, try to take his mind off his emptiness until Stan gets back, or he's going to end up injuring himself with that flashlight out of desperation. 

He takes a pair of fresh boxer shorts from his overnight bag and puts them on, moaning when the lube that's still leaking from him instantly dampens them. Outside, the sun has gotten a bit lower and Stan has doused the campfire. Kyle sees the wood pile that he kicked in frustration and walks over to collect the scattered kindling. Every time he bends over he moans, wanting to grab his ankles and thrust back against alpha cock, and every stick that he touches seems like it might feel pretty good going right up his ass. He's of sound mind enough to know this isn't actually true, and he stacks the kindling with shaking hands, wanting Stan back so bad that it feels like a new and more devastating emptiness has opened in him, emanating from his chest this time. He's heard that bonding makes it physically painful for an alpha and omega pair to be apart for too long, and he's still scared that it's too soon to make such a huge decision about their future. The only bonded pair at school is Kenny and Butters, who were once diagnosed as 'sex addicts' along with Kyle and have always been considered early bloomers in that sense. 

Kyle walks downhill to the nearby creek and washes his hands in the clear water, then walks up again. He hopes Stan will be back before the sun goes down. He doesn't like the idea of Stan driving hurriedly on the mountain roads after dark, and it would be nice to do their bonding outside the tent, under a blazing sunset. The sun is already sinking toward the western mountains, and Kyle is grinning to himself despite the ache in his ass, because when he arrives home on Sunday he can tell his mother that she's not the boss of him anymore, that he's grown up over the weekend and bonded with his alpha. She might yell at him and Stan for bonding at sixteen, but there won't be anything she can do about it. 

“Ey, Jew.” 

Kyle jerks around when he hears Cartman's voice, which has to be some kind of pain-induced delusion. He actually gasps when he sees Cartman standing behind him, too shocked to hide the terror that strikes through him when his frazzled brain puts one and two together.

“Fancy smelling you here,” Cartman says, stepping closer. “I came up to spy on you assholes, thought maybe I'd pretend to be a ghost or a serial killer and scare the shit out of you after sundown, and what do I find? A fucking bitch in heat! I knew you were an omega, Kyle, I always said so, nyah nyah!” 

“Shut up,” Kyle says, backing away. His heart is wild in his chest, and he can smell Cartman plotting, closing in, wanting him. His alpha scent is as strong as Stan's, but it's repulsive instead of attractive, oily and dense with the smell of sweat and greed. “Get out of here,” Kyle says, wishing that hadn't come out sounding so weak and shaken. “Stan is--” 

“I saw Stan drive away,” Cartman says. “Passed his car on the mountain on the way up here.” Cartman leans forward to sniff at Kyle, and Kyle jumps backward, though he knows it's no use. Cartman's ugly smirk widens. “Son of a bitch,” he says. “That pussy hasn't even bred you yet.” 

“He's not going to _breed_ me, dumb ass, I'm only sixteen.” 

“Sixteen seems like a perfectly good age to get bred to me,” Cartman says. Every time Kyle steps away from him, Cartman takes another step forward, looming over him. Kyle might be able to outrun him, but alphas have a kind of super strength when they're aroused by an omega, and Cartman definitely is. “C'mere, Kahl,” Cartman says. “What are you afraid of? Man, you are _ripe_. You need alpha dick so bad, you're gonna thank me as soon as I knot you.” 

“Stay back,” Kyle says. “This isn't the 1800s, you piece of shit. You can't just shove your dick in somebody just because they're-- in heat,” Kyle says, shamefully mumbling that last part. Cartman cackles.

“Please,” he says. “Don't you read the news? Alphas barely get a wrist slap for doing as nature intended to stupid omegas like you who walk around in unmedicated heat. It should be illegal to tempt a law-abiding alpha like myself with your whorish scent, Kyle.” 

“Fine, well, leave me alone.” 

“Nah, I don't think I'm gonna.” 

Kyle takes off running, back toward the tent, his vision tunneling as horrified dread seems to swallow him whole. Cartman is right behind him, breathing heavily, and Kyle doesn't even make it to the campfire before Cartman pounces and grabs him, knocking the breath out of Kyle as he flattens him to the ground with his massive weight. 

“Please,” Kyle says, struggling for air. Cartman yanks his arms behind his back. “No!”

“Walking around up here in your fucking underwear?” Cartman says, scoffing. “You're so wet. I can see it soaking through your panties. You're asking for it, Kyle. Everyone in town will side with me when I bring you down from his mountain as my bitch.” He's got his legs pinned around Kyle's, and Kyle can only wiggle fruitlessly, fighting back tears. This can't be happening; it's a nightmare. He must have fallen asleep in the tent. He wills himself to wake up, _wake up_ , and screams when Cartman twists his arms back painfully. 

“Help me!” he shouts, knowing that no one will hear. “Somebody!” 

“Shut up,” Cartman says. He almost sounds bored. “Don't worry, you won't be the only breeder bitch in my harem. That's the beauty of forcing a bond-- you can do it as many times as you want! I'll let you retire after you give me twenty kids or so.” 

“No, no, no,” Kyle chants when Cartman grabs the waistband of his boxer shorts. Cartman doesn't waste time tugging them down, just rips them apart from hem to seam, moaning in a low rumble when Kyle's hole is exposed. “Goddamn,” he says, almost whispering. “You're already raw. What have you been stuffing up there, huh? Your fist? Aw, Kyle. Don't worry, I'll give you what you need.” 

Kyle presses his face into the grass, hiding a keening cry there as he jerks in Cartman's grip. Stan is probably only just now making it to the store. By the time he comes back, Kyle will be in need of an abortion, and there won't be anything that can be done for his heart or soul to undo this. 

“God,” Cartman says, kicking Kyle's legs apart. “This is gonna feel so fucking good.” 

Kyle clenches as hard as he can, though he knows this will only make it more painful when Cartman forces himself in anyway. He's starting to hyperventilate against the earth, a slimy thread of spit trailing from the corner of his lips, and he holds his breath when Cartman pulls his ass cheeks apart, spreading him open with a satisfied moan. That's when Kyle hears the footsteps, somebody running hard. Cartman must hear it, too, because he releases Kyle's ass with a grunt. 

“Wait!” Cartman says, and then he's lifted off Kyle's back like a tornado has carried him away.

That tornado is Stan, who drags Cartman away from Kyle before hitting him again. Cartman recovers from the shock and growls at Stan, kicking him off. Kyle rolls onto his side, breathing hard and seeing red, his body in a mess of confused pain from Cartman's attack and flaming hot arousal from the sight of Stan fighting for him, teeth bared and eyes black with rage. 

Cartman meets Stan's blows with his own, but he can't hold him off long, already breathless. Stan is stronger than Cartman, more agile and much more fit, and he's able to get the upper hand with a well-timed kick to the center of Cartman's meaty chest. Cartman goes flailing backward and lands hard on his ass. Stan is quickly on top of him, punching him in the face once, twice, three times, and Kyle lets out the breath he was holding when Cartman goes limp under Stan's relentless fists, crying out in pain with every punch he lands. 

“Stan,” Kyle says, weakly, and Stan doesn't seem to hear. Stan gets up and kicks Cartman in the ribs, hard; Kyle hears a crack and winces. “Stan!” he says, running to them. “Stop, please, you'll kill him!”

“Yep,” Stan says, still kicking. Cartman's cries of pain have turned to tiny whimpers, and he's hiding his bruised face in his arms. 

“Stop!” Kyle says, grabbing Stan's arm. Stan whirls on him, his eyes unrecognizably dark and his lip curled as if he's ready to fight Kyle, too. He calms when he sees how scared Kyle is, still breathing very heavily as Cartman curls in on himself and begins to weep. 

“He,” Stan says, turning to take Kyle's shoulders in his hands. His knuckles are bloody and his palms are very hot. “What did he. Do, what did he. Hurt you, he hurt you?”

“He tried to. I thought. Oh, Stan, jesus, Stan!” Kyle throws his arms around Stan's chest and hugs him hard, inadvertently humping himself again Stan's thigh in the process. His sex-crazed omega brain is taking over, soothed by Stan's scent and his strong arms. Stan squeezes Kyle tightly and pets his hair with one clumsy hand, coming back to himself. 

“I want him dead,” Stan says. 

“No,” Kyle says. “Then you'll go to jail. Please, come here, away from him. His scent is going to make me vomit.” 

It's worse now that Cartman has been beaten; he smells like humiliating defeat. Stan turns to spit on him before letting Kyle lead him away, back toward the tent. Kyle is still naked from the waist down, still very hard despite everything. His hands are shaking. Stan's are very steady, and he brings them up to cup Kyle's cheeks, stroking him gently with his thumbs as the last of the mania drains from his eyes. 

“Kyle,” Stan says, whispering. “Jesus, are you okay?”

“I think so,” Kyle says. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and falls against Stan's chest when he pulls him in for another hug. “I hate how weak I felt. He had me, Stan, he was-- it took me totally off guard. Did you turn around when you saw his car coming up the mountain?”

“No,” Stan says. “I didn't notice his car, fuck. I should have. I turned around when I remembered finding condoms in my dad's car as a kid, in the glove box. I checked and there were some in there, a whole strip. Also, I guess I had a bad feeling. I must have smelled Cartman when we crossed paths, even if I didn't see him. Smelled another alpha, anyway.” He kisses the top of Kyle's head and rocks him in his arms. 

“I need you,” Kyle says when he looks up. “I can't wait another second, Stan, please.” 

“Okay,” Stan says, smoothing his thumb across Kyle's cheek again. “I've got the condoms in my pocket. I should call the police first, though. On him.” 

“No, please,” Kyle says, groaning. “I can't be interviewed about my assault right now, god, and they'll say horrible things about omegas in heat and act like it was my fault.”

“They might not,” Stan says, but he sighs when Kyle gives him a look. “Well. It's not right.” 

“I know, but you kicked his ass, and.” Kyle licks his lips and leans up to whisper in Stan's ear. “You could fuck me right here, outside. He'd have to watch. Doesn't that hurt like hell, if you're an alpha?”

“I think so,” Stan says. “Jesus, yeah.” Stan kisses Kyle's face, taking deep breaths between each little peck. “I want that,” he says, whispering. “I want him to die inside while I knot you.” 

“Me too,” Kyle says, his eyes flashing. Stan smiles. 

“Lie down,” he says, and Kyle almost blows his load just from the change in Stan's voice. He nods slowly and sinks down into the grass near the tent, staring up with awe as he watches Stan unbuckle his belt. “Take your shirt off,” Stan says, and Kyle does. 

Stan kicks off his boots and removes his socks before stripping out of his jeans and underwear. He leaves his shirt and jacket on, which Kyle is pretty sure is a traditional alpha thing. He doesn't care, can't take his eyes off of Stan's rock hard dick. It's big, as promised, uncut and wet at the tip, curved slightly upward. Stan's balls are heavy-looking, too, pulled up tight like he's already about to burst. He was probably hard the whole time he fought Cartman; alphas usually are, when an omega's ass is what's come between them. 

“Show me,” Stan says, and maybe it's instinct but Kyle knows exactly what he means: he takes hold of his legs and pulls them up until his knees are nearly touching his stiff nipples. He rocks his hips up, tilting himself toward Stan. Showing him what's already his. “Good,” Stan says, and he sinks down, crawling on top of Kyle but not touching him yet, just hovering over him and breathing through his nose in measured inhales, exhales. “Tell me what you need,” Stan says, his voice low and rough. “You have to say it.” 

“Knot me,” Kyle says. “Make me yours, please, Stan. Please.” 

Stan nods slowly and leans down to sniff at Kyle's neck and jaw, licking him here and there in restrained little swipes of his tongue. The smell of Stan's skin, close like this and turning possessive, his questions about consent asked and answered, makes Kyle's eyes roll back. 

“Gonna fuck you so hard,” Stan says, murmuring this in Kyle's ear. “Just like I've always wanted. God, you're finally _mine_.” He licks Kyle from his throat to his ear after saying so. Kyle moans and nods, going mindless already, but he's still conscious enough to laugh and brace his hands on Stan's shoulders when he feels Stan's wet cockhead brushing his hole. 

“The condom,” Kyle whispers when Stan gives him a questioning look that almost looks like a warning. Stan blinks and shakes his head, cursing himself. 

“Fuck,” he says, sitting back. “Right, sorry, thanks.”

Kyle looks over at Cartman while Stan rips open a condom and rolls it on. Cartman is watching them through slitted eyes, his face wet and his hand hugged over his broken rib. His face is red and already puffy with rising bruises; at school on Monday, Kyle will tell everyone that Stan, _his_ alpha, kicked the shit out of Cartman for attacking him, and everyone will be able to see the evidence for themselves. 

“Okay,” Stan says once the condom is in place. He doesn't spare Cartman a glance, and it's possible that he's forgotten he's there, all of his attention lasered on Kyle's waiting body. “Dude,” Stan says, softly enough that Cartman won't be able to hear. He reaches down to twist Kyle's nipples, the head of his cock pressing against Kyle's hole. Kyle hisses and flexes, wanting it in. “You're beautiful,” Stan says, and Kyle holds in a nervous laugh. “I just. I want to spend my whole life giving you everything you need. Okay?”

“Yes,” Kyle says, reaching for him. Stan closes his eyes as he starts to slide into Kyle, breathing deeply. Kyle moans and watches Stan's face, waiting for it to hurt, the way the flashlight did when it stretched him open. This doesn't hurt, though Stan does feel unbelievably big. It's heavenly, all of Kyle's burning need met with the thick pressure of Stan filling him, warm and hard and incredible, Stan's hard stomach coming to rest against Kyle's erection as his balls press against Kyle's cock-stuffed hole. 

Kyle is making all kinds of shameless noises, drooling a little, dazed with pleasure. He squeezes around Stan and watches Stan's eyelids flutter. Stan rests his face against Kyle's throat, his forearms sliding under Kyle's shoulders. He smells amazing, feels perfect, and his heartbeat is a comforting thud against Kyle's chest. 

“There you go,” Stan says, lifting his face to nudge Kyle's cheek with his nose. “That's what you need, hmm?”

“Yes,” Kyle says, sobbing the word out. “Stan, ah. God, you. How-- how many condoms are there?”

Stan laughs, just a little huff of warm breath against Kyle's cheek. “Six,” he says. “I'll go to the store and get more if we run out. You can come with me this time. You won't smell like a virgin anymore.”

“People will know,” Kyle says, thrilled by this in a way he hadn't anticipated. He looks up into Stan's face, beaming. “People will see us and know.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, and Kyle squeezes around him. “They'll know right here's where I belong.” Stan pulls his hips back and snaps them forward. Kyle moans, his legs wrapping around Stan's back. “God, yeah,” Stan says, his voice getting gruff when he thrusts again, watching Kyle fall apart underneath him. “Take that cock,” Stan says, pressing up onto his palms for better traction. “Take it like a good boy, that's good. You're so wet for me, Kyle, so tight.”

“Stan,” Kyle cries. He's going to come, but he's afraid to touch his cock. Stan is really fucking him now, claiming him, showing him how he's supposed to feel when he's in heat: marked, filled, surrendered to his alpha. He shouts when he feels Stan's knot start to swell, Stan's gentle talk giving way to growling grunts as he fucks Kyle harder. 

“I'm gonna come so fucking hard,” Stan manages to say, his jaw clenched. “Gonna tear right through this fucking condom and put my kid in you, Kyle.”

“Yes!” Kyle screams, wriggling in an attempt to rub his cock against Stan's stomach, needing to come. “Do it, do it, do it!”

Maybe some part of him knows, distantly, that Stan's amazing alpha sperm isn't actually going to tear through a condom designed for alphas and impregnate him, but at the moment he doesn't care. He wants that, wants to lie trapped on Stan's knot while Stan fills him with his seed, wants to look up into Stan's eyes and know he's glad that he's bred Kyle's wet little fuckhole like he's always intended to.

Stan groans when he comes, crushing his mouth to Kyle's and kissing him, nipping at him, panting against Kyle's tongue. He collapses down onto Kyle, and Kyle manages to find enough friction to spill himself between Stan's heaving chest and his own. He clenches around the knot with his orgasm, screaming because it's so big, too wide, and his hole feels like it will never be the same. He supposes it won't be, at least in one sense, and rolls his head against Stan's, panting into Stan's sweaty hair. 

“How long?” Kyle asks, winding his shaking arms around Stan's back. He's tired and the knot hurts. Stan moans and lifts his head. 

“Just a few minutes,” Stan says, and the softness of his voice soothes Kyle into relaxing a little around the wide-as-fuck knot that's holding him in place on Stan's dick. He opens his lips for Stan's kisses and sighs into his mouth. “Sorry I said that about the condom,” Stan says, murmuring this. “I, uh. Don't think that really happened.”

“It's okay,” Kyle says. “That was so good, Stan, just. I feel so fucking good, thank you.”

“The knot doesn't hurt?” Stan asks, shifting backward a bit. Kyle winces; Stan's cock isn't going anywhere until that thing deflates. 

“It's pretty big,” Kyle says. 

“You're pale,” Stan says, cupping his hand around Kyle's cheek. “Shit, are you okay? Did I go too hard for the first time?”

“No, god, it was perfect. Just, I'll be sore, but. I loved it.” 

“You did so good,” Stan says. “You feel amazing, just. Sorry, but I fucking love this. I want to stay in you all night.” 

Kyle moans; despite the burn of being stretched this widely, that sounds kind of excellent. He hears Cartman wheezing and looks over to see him limping away in defeat. Overhead, the setting sun is throwing brilliant colors into the evening sky, making the thin clouds look black in contrast. 

“I'm gonna cook for you,” Stan says, petting Kyle's cheek. “And hold you all night long, and you can have my cock whenever you need it.” 

“Yes,” Kyle says, and he sighs with relief when he feels the knot start to shrink. 

“What do you want for dinner?” Stan asks.

“Anything but hot dogs.”

When the bonding is complete, Kyle drops into a kind of coma-level sleep that feels amazing, almost cleansing, as if he's being remade while he rests. Despite the depth of his slumber, he can sense Stan nearby the whole time, Stan's scent lingering on him and his ass burning with pleasant exhaustion, well tended. Stan makes bacon and scrambled eggs for dinner, and when Kyle wakes it's dark outside and the food is ready. 

They spend the whole weekend fucking and cuddling inside one sleeping bag, wedged in tightly and unwilling to leave each other's arms until Kyle's heat demands sex again. He's sore at times but still needy, soaking wet when he wakes up to the smell of Stan's skin flooding his nose. By Sunday his thighs are aching and his nipples have been so worked over by Stan's mouth that they're sensitive to the slightest brush from his t-shirts, so he's shirtless when he joins Stan's at the creek for some last minute fishing. 

“I think it's winding down,” Kyle says when he leans back against Stan's chest, facing the creek. Stan is shirtless, too, wearing some loose basketball shorts and no underwear. “The heat, I mean,” Kyle says when Stan slips an arm across his belly. 

“That's good,” Stan says. “I don't want to hurt you. You're getting so raw.” Stan makes a mournful noise and kisses Kyle's cheek.

“I'm okay,” Kyle says, and it's true.

“I was thinking,” Stan says, rubbing Kyle's belly. “I know you're not sure if you, um, want to have kids, and obviously we don't have to decide for a long time. But if we _did_ have kids-- would they be Jewish?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. It's a nice thought, weirdly. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason, just. Judaism was like, the one thing we didn't have in common as kids, and I think I always wanted to be part of a Jewish family, like. So I could share that with you, too. And if we had some kids, and you and the kids were all Jewish, that's, like, a Jewish family. Right?”

“Sure,” Kyle says, glad that Stan can't see his smile. He wouldn't want Stan to think he's laughing about this; it's very sweet. “I mean, you wouldn't have to convert or anything, but yeah. We'd do the holidays and stuff.” 

“Cool,” Stan says, rubbing Kyle's belly again. “I mean, that'd be cool. If we ever have kids, one day. But, you know. I'm really glad the condoms didn't actually tear.” 

“Me too, dude. Thank god for modern inventions.” 

Kyle expected to be nervous on the long car ride home, approaching the wrath of his mother, but he's so calm he falls asleep in the passenger seat. He dreams that they already have two little kids to bring home and introduce to their grandparents, and in the dream he can't wait to brag about his brand new family to everyone in town. When he wakes up it's still true: Stan is family now, unbreakable and biologically fused, and Kyle is going to smile so smugly at Stan's side from now on.


End file.
